Voices, Faces and Facades
by chaotizitaet
Summary: This is about the 67th Hunger Games. About the 24 tributes and their voices, the 12 districts and their faces, but also about one Capitol and its facades.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Prologue**

 _Capitol – Head Gamemaker Gaius Mendelev_

Head Gamemaker Gaius Mendelev made sure his steps were measured and not hesitant, that the not so fast pace appeared deliberate yet not lacking in purpose, as he walked along the echoing hallway. He was about to meet Coriolanus Snow, the current President of Panem, to get the President's blessing for the arena for the 67th Hunger Games and truth be told, he was dreading this meeting. It was hopefully the last of many meetings regarding this arena, the one meeting which would let him know that all the hard work of the last year had been worth it. That he had indeed created an arena worthy of the President's expectations regarding the Hunger Games. And yet…

One never knew if not one of the President's family members had recently visited one of the old arenas and had become enamoured with a certain feature and was now championing this feature with the mighty head of the family to see it implemented in this year's arena as well. The thought alone of being ordered to add a forest or even a copse, any cluster of trees to the current design made Gaius shudder and it took a lot of willpower to not slow down his pace further. No, this year's Hunger Games arena was not designed to include any kind of sky-reaching trees. To add this would turn a well-balanced layout into a monstrosity not worthy of a gamemaker of Gaius' reputation.

Another, equally unsettling option of messing with the design was, if one of the powerful yet not too powerful families in the Capitol who owned certain shares in one of the district industries had seriously displeased the President and Snow would then order that nothing even remotely connected with that specific industry was to be used in this year's arena. To remove something which might be a key-feature of this design and having to replace it within the short time which remained till the beginning of the Hunger Games season was next to impossible. And again, any substitute would most likely be only shabby in comparison with the original layout and therefore not something Gaius wanted to be connected with his name.

As he neared the heavy wooden double doors leading to the President's office, the Head Gamemaker could hear soft strains of music emanating from inside. He stopped to listen to the music for a moment and was instantly enthralled and taken aback at the same time. This was neither the whimsical music one could find in the Capitol clubs or fancily overdone in official concerts nor was it the simple, though often haunting melodies of the folk songs from the districts. This one was more primordial yet at the same time held a mystical power and finesse that was hard to pin down. It urged the listener on, yet held him back at the time… It was foreboding. It was powerful. And somehow Gaius Mendelev instantly understood that this was a piece of music the President would be drawn to.

He lingered at the door for a few moments, unsure whether to knock and disturb the music or to wait till the piece came to an end, when the notes became lighter for a short few bars during which he could hear the characteristic voice of the President call 'Enter!' despite the lack of a knock on Gaius' side. The gamemaker smiled ruefully and glanced briefly at the small camera situated above the door, which had undoubtedly alerted the President of his arrival. Adjusting the rolled up layout of the arena and the file with the additional information under his arm, Gaius took one last deep breath before entering the lion's den.

"A fascinating piece of music, isn't it?" the President asked from behind his desk, where he sat in his opulent chair, appearing relaxed for all in the world. Yet the Head Gamemaker knew better than that. President Coriolanus Snow was never relaxed in the presence of someone else. There were some whispers in the Capitol that he not even fully relaxed while sleeping.

The Head Gamemaker inclined his head and moved forward till he stood just behind the guest seats in front of the desk. One never sat in the presence of the President without being invited.

"Pre-cataclysmic", President Snow elaborated with a slight nod in the direction of the strains of music which again engulfed the room. "Called 'The Flying Dutchman'. Most of it was lost in the Cataclysm, but this piece, the Overture, survived."

Now Gaius knew why he had been unable to place or classify this music. Pre-cataclysmic lore was fragmented at best and some of it was of restricted access. Most likely a piece of music such as this would be considered either too dangerous for the population of Panem in general, considering that it had the power to stir up wild emotions and longings in the people, or too complicated in understanding for the majority of the audience. Even he, who had had the privilege of the best education the Capitol and consequently Panem could offer, along with the finer and more intricate parts of what the society of this country was, to which he had had access to thanks to his family's position and his own career as a gamemaker, could hardly grasp the many layers a piece of music such as this Overture held.

"But I don't think you came here today to discuss ancient music with me." With this the President sat up and reduced the volume of the music so that it almost faded into the background.

The Head Gamemaker was not one minute fooled by the jovial appearance the President was giving himself. Truly, nobody would have been able to just come and visit the President for a chat about pre-cataclysmic lore, unless perhaps he was a member of the family. Which Gaius was not. Plus they were both very much aware of the fact that the President had ordered him here for that day and that time. And yet, Gaius knew the rules of the game too well, not to smile graciously and reply: "Any time, Sir, any time. One would be quite a fool not to appreciate music such as this." With this he placed the rolled up layout on the desk, allowing the President to unroll it himself.

For several moments the room was almost completely silent as Coriolanus Snow perused the detailed layout. As always the arena was of a round shape since this allowed for a stable force-field. Yet where other arenas were sometimes lush or even overgrown, sporting various layers of vegetation to allow for the tributes to hide in, find resources of food and fire-making, as well as giving the gamemakers tools of turning the arena against the tributes, this one was almost barren.

"I see you came up with some ideas for the problem of nightly exposure", the President mused.

People often believed that the Gamemakers started the creation of an arena on the drawing table. That they simply tossed together features they liked, arranged and rearranged them on the drawing board till they had perfected the layout and then started building the thing. But that was not how it worked. Besides, it would have been highly impractical to have to move trees several meters high to create an artificial forest if the arena called for it. Not to mention all the work that was to be put into an arena to implement the multitude of cameras and other technical devices needed to have the arena ready for operation. So what the gamemakers did instead was to tour the lands beyond the Capitol with hovercrafts to find an area that looked promising. An area that would give the audience variety from the previous arena and could be adapted without too many troubles.  
This year they had chosen an area surrounding a receding salt lake. The last arena had boasted of plenty of water, though of course they had added dangers to this resource, so having now an arena where drinking water was hard to come by was enticing. Of course they would make proper equipment available to the tributes to desalinize the water, but the tributes would have to pick up that knowledge during training. And since not all tributes tried out all the stations offered in the training centre, some mentors would be forced to spend precious sponsor money on keeping their tributes hydrated. The President had liked this twist and had instantly approved of it. The receding salt lake however meant that a large part of the arena was just the barren, salty desert with the occasional rock and some scruffy bushes… An area like that without shelter or wood to provide the tributes with fire for the nights was a liability as they had found out the hard way three years ago. True, that arena had been even more of a desert, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, but it had been rather anticlimactic to see most of the tributes outside of the Career Alliance die of nightly exposure, simply freezing to death. And it simply did not do to repeat past mistakes in the concept of an arena. So they had had to find a fitting solution for this. Eventually they had settled with adding shipwrecks. These rusty hulls would provide enough shelter, would allow for camera equipment to give nightly impressions of the tributes and offered a way to herd the tributes together in due time.

"Yes, Sir", Gaius replied. "We thought that once, when the lake had been larger and the salt concentration not that high, there might have been fish in the lake, and with it fishing industry."

President Snow nodded. "I like the idea. Indeed, a very good idea… Did you know that the legend of 'The Flying Dutchman' is about a ghost ship?"

The Head Gamemaker could not believe his luck. He had picked ships for shelter and the President was currently listening to some music about a ship! Unless he now botched things up in a spectacular manner, this was almost an assured approval of the layout. "No, I did not…"

"A ship, floating in from the sky!"

It was obvious that Snow wanted that theme to be exploited a bit more. The wheels in Gaius' head turned in high speed. "The feast…," he said after a few moments of pondering this. "Instead of raising it from below, we could have it brought in by a hovercraft disguised as a ship."

"Capital! See that it is done!" The President then returned his attention to the layout. Carefully counting the tiny ships on the map, he furrowed his brow. "Twelve ships? Added to that area of rocky hills, don't you think that this is overdoing the shelter issue a bit?"

The gamemaker had been prepared for this question. "Not really, Sir. See?" He retrieved a folded paper from the file which proved to be a construction drawing of one of the ships. "All ships will be equipped with hidden explosives. So since we have one ship per district, the moment both tributes are out of the game, we'll detonate a shipwreck, reducing the number of shelters. There may be twelve ships when the tributes are launched into the arena, but by the end of the first day, statistics say there'll be at least one or two ships less. The current plan is that we'll detonate the ships furthest away from the Cornucopia first, thereby making sure that the tributes over the span of the Games will be drifting back in the direction of the centre. Even if one tries to hide out in the remotest ship still standing, the ships are clearly visible, so they can be tracked down. Also I expect that there'll be fights over certain ships, since the closer to the centre they are, the better their condition is."

"Sounds promising… The shelters give raise to hope in the tributes and as has been proven countless times in the Games, hope is often the spark needed to get the tributes fighting… And if a tribute is not playing by the rules, thinking they can hide out in a ship, we can give them proper warning or even blow up their shelter… Truly promising concept. I approve of it."

With this President Snow reached into one of his drawers to remove the carefully crafted stamp with the President's seal. Without further ado, he stamped his approval on the layout.

Gaius felt relief wash over him. All other aspects, the water bottles, the muttations, the food sources, the equipment to be distributed at launching, the uniforms for the tributes, had already been approved in previous meetings. There might still be minor adjustments in uniforms or equipment depending on the tributes they got, but those were hardly ever an issue. "Thank you, Sir." The gamemaker rolled up the layout and prepared to leave. As the President raised the volume of the music once more, he could hear him say: "Since we are going for a legendary theme with this Flying Dutchman Arena, I think I'll have the stylists come up with equally legendary themes for the tributes' parade outfits. Legends to reflect the districts… After all, we should respect the ancient lore."

Gaius nodded and bid the President a good day. Once outside the closed double doors, he allowed a sentiment of pity to show on his face as he thought of the reaction of the stylists once they learned of the President's idea of exploring the ancient lore in terms of costumes. The stylists were a curious group of people, more interested in their art than in playing the political game, which surrounded the Hunger Games. As such they never liked any interference with their work. But even worse – this year's order meant that they'd have to make sure that they did not pick the same legend as another stylist. And while the stylists might socialize with each other, their ideas for the parade costumes was probably the best kept secret in the Capitol, perhaps even the only secret that was successfully kept in this city. So, having to talk about it in advance… But well, this was not Gaius' problem. His focus was better turned on disguising a hovercraft as a ship with full sails.


	2. Chapter 1 - Reaping District 12

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 1: Reaping – Too many, too little (District 12)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

The small signal lamp above the camera lighted up and told the ageless host that they were on air. Caesar Flickerman donned his stage smile and turned his face to the appropriate angle to greet the audience in front of the many TV screens all over the Capitol. It was the first day of another Hunger Games Season. It was Reaping Day. And it was his duty to guide the audience through all the twelve districts. But it was also his first chance to catch a glimpse at those young people he'd have to interview in one week, his first chance to get an idea how to help them in an unbiased way to let potential sponsors see the best of them.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to another season of spectacular bravery, cunning and skills, welcome to the season of the 67th Hunger Games! I am Caesar Flickerman and I will be right with you as we make our annual tour through Panem to see which lucky girls and boys are chosen to represent their district as tributes. So without further ado, let us begin. It may be just noon here at the Capitol, but it is already two o'clock in the afternoon in District Twelve, the nation's supplier of coal, where everybody has lined up, eager for this year's Reaping. Let's join District Twelve's beautiful escort Effie Trinket."

With this, the signal lamp's light was turned off and the direction had switched to the many cameras lining the square where District 12's Reaping would take place. Caesar's smile vanished and he greedily reached for the glass of water to wash away the foul taste of cheerfulness with which he had just called District 12's people eager in regards of the Reaping. From what he could see on the screen of District 12, people were everything but eager. They were at best resigned. While on the one hand Caesar could understand that the thought of losing a beloved child in the games was devastating, on the other hand it was apparent that District 12 had not yet understood what chances the games also offered. Yes, it was true that the games were a reminder to the districts of the lost rebellion all those decades ago. But nowadays the games were so much more than a punishment. They gave the districts the chance to shine, to overcome obstacles, to outgrow their boundaries. Districts 1, 2 and 4 were prime examples for this. While some might argue that it was easier for District 1 as richest district or District 2 with all the special treatment they got due to the Peacekeeper Academies in that district, District 4 had managed to rise above the early expectations of tributes' performance in the games without being rich or treated in any special way. Neither its industry nor its geographical position had given that district any edge success wise in the games and yet District 4 had proven time and again that its tributes were always notable competition. There was actually a movement in the Capitol, albeit a small one, to exempt districts from the games as obviously unwilling as District 12, arguing that if the district didn't want the chance to compete for the spoils a victor's district got, they did not deserve that chance. Caesar was totally opposed to this. The games were a lesson that a district such as District 12 had yet to learn and to exempt them meant taking the chance of learning that lesson away from them. It would equal discrimination. It was one of the reasons Caesar Flickerman had applied for the job as host all those years ago. He wanted to give the districts a chance to understand the situation through the eyes of their own children. And even his fiercest opponents in the Capitol had to allow that he did his job well in giving each tribute the best of chances to shine and snare sponsors. And who knew, perhaps some of the tributes this year understood.

* * *

 _District 12 – Linley Johnson, 16 years_

It was not too long after dawn that Linley woke up. No matter what day it was, no matter how tired she was, the internal clock told her to get up if ever she wanted to get everything done and all of her siblings ready for the day in time. As oldest child in an ever growing family, with her mother either indisposed with another pregnancy or all her time taken up by caring for the latest baby, Linley had learned at an early age to take care of herself and gradually of her siblings. Right now, the Johnson family consisted of eight people, though soon they'd be nine.

Slipping quietly out of her bed, she brushed away a soft strand of dark hair which obscured her younger sister's angelic face. The six year old girl mumbled something in her sleep, only to grasp the blanket tighter and slip back into Morpheus' arms. Linley smiled at the girl, who was ten years her junior, before hurrying to slip into her clothes, seeing that despite it's being summer, the cottage her family lived in, was rather chilly this early in the morning. Stoking the fire in the kitchen stove she then went to wake her two brothers. At thirteen and ten respectively, they were old enough to help in the household.

"Whasup," Jurian mumbled, while his older brother Kereth sat up immediately, being already used to the early wake-up call their sister would give them.

"Time to get up," Linley said quietly so as not to wake up Ida in the bed she had deserted just minutes ago herself. "I need you to fetch some wood from the edge of the forest." She furrowed her brow, suddenly remembering what day it was. "And don't just bring your usual load, we need more. It's Reaping Day which means that father will be home and you know he expects a good fire in the evening plus we'll all need to take a bath."

At these words, Kereth moaned in dismay. Reaping Day… easily the most horrible day for every child in the districts of Panem between twelve and eighteen years, as they were eligible to be reaped as tribute for the Hunger Games.

Linley spared her brother a short rueful smile. It would be her brother's second year of eligibility and he already had eighteen slips to his name. But it was not as if she had any less to her name. For her it would be no less than forty-two slips in the Reaping Bowl. All thanks to their parents and their skewed view of family planning.

It had not always been this bad for their family. Linley remembered the time when she had rejoiced over the birth of her little brother Jurian, whereas now she dreaded the birth of every new sibling. Back when she had been young, when she had been allowed to be still a child, her mother had taken care of them, had taught her, and later Kereth, how to tend the vegetable garden they had behind their small house. And while there was never plenty to eat, the combination of what her father had earned in the mines and the food her mother had grown in their garden ensured that they had never truly been hungry. Back then her father had even signed up for the double-shifts which were offered to the employees of the mine in spring, getting them a little extra-money, an ever so tiny nest-egg should they need the service of the apothecary or had to replace things in the house. It was those times Linley forced herself to remember when she got all annoyed with her parents' present behaviour; to remind herself that deep down her father and mother still cared for them. At least, that's what she told herself.

Things had changed when her mother had become pregnant with little Ida. This pregnancy had come as quite a surprise to them, but termination of the pregnancy had never been an option. How they would manage, they did not know, but they were all as family convinced that somehow they would manage. What nobody could have predicted was her mother falling into postnatal depression after Ida's birth. And while the wailings of the baby roused the mother enough to feed the tiny girl, the older children were left to their own devices. So at ten years Linley had to take over the household. It might not have been so bad, had she been able to count on her father's help. But being unable to reach his beloved wife and pull her out of her depression almost broke him and he turned to alcohol as solace, sometimes even skipping a shift. They had been lucky that the father had not been fired during that time, but it was certainly a close call. It was in these weeks, that Linley and her brothers had first ventured outside the fence. Without money for coal, gathering firewood had been the only solution if they wanted to cook soup or just even heat the house. They were not the only ones risking punishment by slipping through the fence and by carefully watching those who looked like they knew what they were about, Linley learnt quite a bit about edible plants, roots and bark with which to supplement the food they got from the vegetable garden and the occasional bread her father remembered to bring home.

While the dark veil which had engulfed her mother after Ida's birth eventually lifted, something deep within the woman had changed. Seeing that her daughter apparently was well-able to deal with the household chores and look after the younger children, she made no attempt to take over from Linley again. To make things worse, she began to see her children as means of living, as means of provision, and by the time Linley turned twelve and was eligible for tesserae, the mother was again highly pregnant. In her eyes, more children equalled more tesserae and also over a longer span of years. Linley had tried to reason with her mother, to show her that such a philosophy also endangered the very kids she was relying upon for tesserae in that it made them more likely of being reaped, but rarely does a child of twelve succeed in reasoning with a parent and Linley certainly did not succeed. She silently seethed over her mother's decision, but there was nothing she could really do about it, short of not taking out tesserae and let everyone starve. As for her father… while his drinking got less after the departure of the mother's depressions, he still spent more money on liquor than Linley would have liked, and he was well content to let his wife have her way regarding the new pregnancy.

At that time Linley had felt terribly guilty at being relieved that little Hilda had died within an hour after being born, but already by the next year, the family had increased by a little boy, Grigg, and the year after by a little girl, Feya, and there was simply no place in her life to feel guilty over relief when there were so many other pressing issues like putting food on the table. With the situation being as it was, it had been a given that Kereth would take out tesserae as well, once he turned twelve, and unless something big changed in the family, Jurian would not escape the dreaded slips either.

The thought of her youngest siblings made her mind return to the present. Since it was Reaping Day, it was one of the few days her father could sleep in, but this would only happen if she made sure that Grigg and Feya did not wake up their father with their call for breakfast. Her best chance of achieving this was to retrieve the little tykes from her parents' bedroom where they shared a small pallet on the floor. Latest by the time the baby was born, Linley knew that the pallet would be moved into the bedroom she shared with Kereth, Jurian and Ia, making it even more cramped. As for now, she tiptoed into her parents' bedroom and quietly picked up first Grigg and put him into bed with Ida and then repeated the same with Feya. Luckily neither toddler woke up, so Linley could then turn to the next tasks: Breakfast for eight, followed by preparing warm water to draw baths for the family.

An hour later her brothers had returned from their wood gathering and were greedily eating the tessera mush Linley had cooked. The clatter of the spoons in the tin bowls alerted the little ones and soon enough Linley had her hands full feeding the two smallest, while Ida had to be persuaded to eat first and then get dressed. The little girl had already spied the good clothes Linley had laid out on her brothers' bed and was thrilled to find her favourite dress, the one with the pretty pink sash, ready for her. But Linley had learned long ago that especially pretty clothes never survived breakfast without food stains.

Halfway through breakfast Mr. Johnson made his appearance, and it was days as these which gave Linley hope that not all was lost for her family, when, without a word, he took up one of the spoons and helped her feed Grigg, so that she could concentrate on feeding Feya. She sent him a grateful smile and even managed to eat a few spoons of mush herself before it was all cold.

Afterwards Linley began with the hassle of getting everyone bathed, dressed and kept clean till it was time to go to the Square, while her father took the opportunity to indulge in some rare gardening. Halfway through the bathing session the mother finally made her appearance.

"What is this mess about? Linley! Can't you keep the house clean? And where is breakfast?"

Silently counting to ten, Linley turned to her mother. "Good morning. I hope you slept well. Breakfast is on the stove to keep warm." She purposely ignored the other questions.

Huffing and scowling at her daughter the pregnant woman waddled to the stove only to frown at the small quantity left. "Good thing that soon we'll have another tessera to this family," she muttered.

Linley rolled her eyes behind her mother's back and turned back to Ida. "Off you go," she said and handed her little sister the towel. "Jurian, your turn!" she called out the backdoor to where her brothers were involved in some game or other.

"Don't tell me you are wasting all that wood and water on baths!" her mother exclaimed.

"In case you forgot: today is Reaping Day," Linley snapped. "It wouldn't do for the neighbours to give us a wide berth because of we stink, mother!" It was already hard enough to ignore all those looks they got in school, no need to stand out even more. Facing the door again, she yelled: "Jurian! Now! Or I let father have his bath!"

This brought the lithe boy running. They all knew that once their father had his bath, they would be forced to wash themselves with cold water only, since scrubbing all the coal dust off which had accumulated on his skin during the week, soiled the warm water thoroughly and Linley refused to heat up any more water.

It took a lot of badgering and harassing on Linley's part, but eventually the family reached the square in time for Kereth and Linley to sign in, though it had taken the reminder of the Peacekeepers coming otherwise for her in the evening to get the mother going.

As she filed in among the other sixteen year olds, Linley mused that she was perhaps the only one who was looking forward to the boring part of the History of Panem, as for once it meant that she had not to care for anything for at least a few minutes.

* * *

 _District 12 – Joseph Franks, 15 years_

"Up, up, up!" A voice shouted excited. "Come on, Joseph, get up! You don't want to miss the train."

The teenage boy in bed simply turned around and grumbled: "Go away Ehron. Let me sleep some more. It's just a train!"

"Not just any train, Joseph," his little brother protested. "It's Reaping Day! It's the tribute train bringing this strange Effie Trinket!"

Reaping Day! How could he have forgotten? Joseph sat up and grinned at his sibling. Whereas trains were a common appearance at the junction outpost at the border of District 12 to District 11 – most of them being coal trains taking the district's produce to faraway District 5, interspaced with the occasional rail-maintenance train – the elegant and sleek high-speed train which brought the overly dolled up Capitol escort to the district for the annual Reaping was something special to the kids living at the junction guard outpost. Hastily donning some clothes, Joseph was soon sprinting down the stairs of the house with his brother to catch a glimpse of the high-tech train as it rushed past.

And really, within ten minutes the silver train came into view and signalled the official beginning of Reaping Day to the two boys. In less than two hours a hovercraft would come to pick them up along with their mother and take them to the town of the district, where the Reaping would take place. Not that any of the family was truly worried about the Reaping. Ehron was not yet eligible, and though it would be Joseph's fourth year at the Reaping, he had only the minimum of slips in the Reaping Bowl, since the family had never been in need of tesserae. Joseph knew that he was living a singular life of comparable ease, and the more he saw of the main area of the district to which he belonged, the more grateful was he to be born to his parents instead of other parents.

The railway network in Panem was vast yet kept to a minimum of tracks where possible, only connecting the districts where necessary. Consequently District 12 as the easternmost district had only one track going from the mines and the town to the border, where it split up in a northern and a southern track. The northern route took the trains either to District 6 for maintenance or to the Capitol, whereas the southern route directed the trains to District 5 where the coal would be turned into energy for all of Panem. But such junctions needed to be guarded; it had to be made sure that the tracks were set correctly for the scheduled trains. And while the ever present Peacekeepers would have been an option of manning the junction outpost, it was thought a terrible waste of resources by the government to take squads of trained fighters to handle railroad tracks – one squad for every junction. Instead the government had decided to buy the loyalty of some district families and install them at the junction outposts. It came with the price of having a tracker injected in every family member and living a rather isolated life, but it was a price many of them were more than willing to pay, seeing that in return they were ensured to have enough to eat, enough coal, enough clothing and even local medicine when needed. It was a lifetime deal, still applicable in retirement when one of the children had taken over for their parents and was also applicable for up to two children, as the oldest child would be groomed follow in the parent's footsteps of becoming a junction guard whereas the younger one was guaranteed the training and later job of a teacher. Only if the junction guard and his or her spouse decided to have more than two children, they were on their own regarding the upkeep and education of the third or any further child.

It was a good deal, though there had been cases known where the isolation had been too much for the family involved. After all, they lived miles and miles away from any of the districts' activities. The only relief was the biweekly visits of a Peacekeeper in a hovercraft to drop off provisions and mail. And of course Reaping Day or end-of-year exams at school for the children, which offered an opportunity to mix with the rest of the district.

Knowing that this was a day of mixing with the other children of the district, the two boys entered the kitchen with an excited chatter. Ehron was hoping to see some of the kids with whom he had gotten along quite well during recess on exam day, whereas Joseph's mind was turned more in the direction of the girls. He returned the fond smile with which his mother greeted her two sons while preparing a good breakfast, and still marvelled at how his father had managed to win their mother, given the few opportunities he would have had for this.

At the announced time, the hovercraft descended and the ladder was let down for the family to climb up. Joseph was a bit sad that their father had to remain behind, but since the rest of them would only be returned to the outpost after the train with the tributes had left, he had to stay at the outpost to make sure that the train passed undisturbed and on the correct track into District 11. Joseph waved a short goodbye to his father, resolving to ask him tonight how to go about finding a girl of his own to marry eventually.

The flight to the town was not a long one, but after having been taken there by hovercraft every year for school exams and for the past years for Reaping as well, it had lost its charm to Joseph. The promise of meeting with his peers was much more exciting to him. Though certainly not popular among the boys of his age – he was simply too little known to them – he had managed to strike up and maintain a certain degree of acquaintance with some. And while he knew that until the actual Reaping was over most of them would be too anxious for a friendly chat, things would become visibly relaxed after this year's tributes had been taken to the Justice Building. Yet, as he signed in and joined the other fifteen year old boys, he could not help wishing to be better known, to be more popular. He noticed a bit dismayed that some of his peers were already flirting with the girls – though he failed to notice that most of the flirting was merely a mechanism for coping with the anxiety of perhaps being reaped – and he wondered how he should find a girl of his own if the popular guys claimed all the good ones for themselves. And the wife of a junction guard most certainly had to be a good girl… But he had only limited time, only few opportunities to convince a girl to embark on a hopefully life-long partnership with him. Only exam days and reaping days, with letters to last them for the rest of the time. But once he was out of school, there'd only be the reaping days left till even his brother became too old. Life could be so unfair.

Punctually at two o'clock the ceremony began and after a thankfully short recitation of the History of Panem the Mayor read out the list of names of District 12's victors and welcomed their Capitol escort Effie Trinket. Her flowery and long-winded reply to the words of greeting from the Mayor were cut short by a loud snore coming from none other than the only living victor on the stage: Haymitch Abernathy. A known drunk, he had passed out right after the Mayor's reading his name and was now trying to sleep off his intoxication. Affronted at this lack of respect, Effie Trinket scrunched up her face, stopped her little speech mid-word and after giving an icy token of 'May the odds be ever in your favour' decided to get on with the ceremony instead without further stalling.

As Joseph watched her make her way over to the glass bowl which held the girls' slips, he wondered how anyone could walk in such incredibly high heeled shoes. His mother owned a pair of heeled shoes and as small kid he had once tried to walk in those. It was more like walking on tip-toes all the time… And to think that the ones Effie Trinket wore were at least twice as high in the heels, if not more, compared to his mother's shoes…

So absorbed was he in the thoughts about those ridiculous shoes that he almost missed the escort announcing the name of the girl tribute.

"Linley Johnson!" rang the name in that clear and high Capitol accent across the crowd.

A boy somewhere behind Joseph, from one of the younger sections, shouted out a dismayed "No!" Probably a brother of that girl.

Slowly the group of girls a little ahead of Joseph parted as a sixteen-year-old made her way slowly and with a slightly resigned and slightly angry look on her face to the stage. Her thin frame clearly showed that she was from one of the families who were well acquainted with hunger, or at least with too small meals. And yet, there was a determination in her posture which told Joseph that this girl had certainly not yet given up, despite the odds being not in her favour. Joseph cheered silently for her. He liked it far better if their tributes at least showed some courage instead of giving the appearance of being lambs led to the slaughter. Of course the question for volunteers was met with silence.

With this it was the boys' turn. As Joseph looked around the other boys he could almost see the number of slips each of the boys had to their names printed on their foreheads. Then Effie Trinket had reached the glass bowl and began to stir the paper slips with her long-nailed fingers, before taking out one of them.

"Joseph Franks!"

* * *

 _District 12 – Linley Johnson, 16Y_

The rest of the ceremony had not really registered with Linley and before she knew it she was in a fancy room inside the Justice Building, with her siblings crowding around her. They had been the first to come in, Kereth and Jurian carrying the two youngest, who now, like the rest of them, tried to hug their sister with all their might, though they were too young to fully understand what was happening. Sitting down on the plush sofa, Linley took both Feya and Grigg on her lap, while pulling Ida close to her. Kereth stood behind her, taking as much comfort from clasping her shoulders as he could. Jurian looked a bit torn, like on the one hand he would have liked to cuddled up close to Linley much like Ida was doing while on the other hand he felt that at ten years old he was too old for such childish need of comfort. It was Kereth who eventually left Linley for a moment to nudge his brother to the free side of the sofa.

They had just all settled into this tableau of sibling love, when the parents entered. The look Linley shot them, spoke volumes. 'Is this what you wanted?' her eyes asked. It almost broke her heart when her mother turned away with a defiant and at the same time somewhat indifferent look. Only the presence of her younger siblings, who needed her to be strong, allowed her to keep up her strong façade.

Then her eyes met her father's look and for a moment she could not believe what she was seeing there: Guilt. She looked away, but only for a split-second, before returning her gaze and the guilt was still there. Her father had not averted his eyes. He was owning up to the mistakes he had made in the past. Linley allowed her heart to grow an ever so tiny bit lighter. Nodding her head almost imperceptibly she allowed her father to pick up Ida and settle her on his own lap, taking her place by Linley's side.

"I'm sorry," he said with a hoarse whisper.

Linley felt that Kereth, always a little hot-headed at times, wanted to give their father a scathing reply, but laying her hand on his where he was touching her shoulders, she quieted him. "I…" She struggled for the right words. "I know. And to some degree I even forgive you," she said quietly. "But you know that we can't forget. Neither you, nor I, nor Kereth or Jurian. Perhaps not even Ida, Grigg and Feya. So, if you are truly sorry, things will have to change at home."

"Your mother…" Her father's voice died down.

"I know that you love her. And I know that we can't change her." Turning her head slightly to also address Kereth, she continued: "We can all only change ourselves and hope to positively influence others by setting them the right example."

Kereth dropped his head. He knew that without his sister's industrious and patient example he would have often shirked his duties. As soon to be oldest sibling, it would be up to him to set the younger ones the right example. "But I can't cook," he blurted out. As oldest, Linley had always been the one to cook soups or prepare the tessera mush and bread for them after their mother had taken so ill after Ida's birth.

"Neither could I in the beginning," said Linley encouraging. "You have seen often enough what I do. With a bit of trial and error, I'm sure you'll manage well enough."

Kereth still eyed her doubtfully.

"I know how to cook," the father then interjected. "At least where it comes to soups and mush. I can teach you, Kereth. But I noticed that Linley always puts some things in the soup which were not bought from the market."

Jurian grinned. "The roots and stuff? We collected them in meadow. We can teach you!"

Linley breathed a small sigh of relief. It seemed as if there was a chance for her family to rise above their current misery. Though she was sad to know that it had taken her being reaped, of the family going to lose her, to reach this breakthrough. Looking up she noticed that her mother had slipped out of the room. Ah, well, at least she had gotten her father back.

"Why are you talking like Linley is leaving us forever?" little Ida piped up. The innocent ignorance in her voice finally broke Linley's composure. Burying her head at her father's shoulders, she let escape all those sobs and tears which had threatened to strangle her ever since her name had been called out. She did not hear Kereth trying to explain to his little sister the truth of the Hunger Games while she allowed herself to be comforted by her father.

Eventually a Peacekeeper appeared to let them know that the time was up. It was then that her father dug around in one of the pockets of his trousers. Pulling out a round, flat item he put it into Linley's hand. "Take this as token."

Linley stared at it in disbelief. "Your medal of merit as notable miner?" This medal was given out once a year, and only to the one miner, who during the spring double shifts managed to mine the most coal in one day. Along with the medal, the recipient was presented with a gift basket, containing some fine white bread, a good piece of meat and even some rare fruit. Linley had been five years when her father had won that one and she could still remember the tantalizing smell of the roast her mother had prepared from the meat.

"I'll earn a new one!" he promised her. And Linley knew he would keep his word.

* * *

 _District 12 – Joseph Franks, 15Y_

He couldn't believe it. The world had faded into an impenetrable grey after he had heard his own name being called out, though he had been painfully aware of all the boys moving away from him. A none too gentle nudge had eventually propelled him forward. He had almost stumbled on the steps of the stage, but when Effie Trinket had bent down to lend him a hand he had snatched his arm away. He didn't want her to touch him. He didn't want to interact in the least with this woman. Stupid Effie Trinket! How could she do the improbable and pull out his name? He had a meagre four slips in this bowl. From the looks of the girl next to him, that brother of hers he had heard earlier most likely had more slips than him, despite being younger than Joseph.

He plunked down on the fine sofa in the room inside the Justice Building he had been led to by one of the Peacekeepers who seemed vaguely familiar, utterly unaware of his surroundings, staring blankly at the wall.

The door opened and his mother and brother entered. His mother sat down beside him, patting his hand in an attempt to comfort him, though the soft sniffles from her, which registered on the outskirts of his mind, told Joseph that she was in need of comfort herself. He suddenly missed his father most painfully. The knowledge that he had not bid him a proper goodbye, so sure that he would see him in the evening as he had been, tore at his heart.

Strange enough, it was Ehron, who lightened up the situation. "Remember the times we raced the trains?" he all of a sudden asked.

It took him a moment to gather his mind enough to nod, but then Joseph was grateful for the silence being broken.

"You are fast, Joseph." There was an earnestness in the little boy's eyes, which made Joseph's courage rekindle. His brother was right. He was fast. True, the coal trains were slowed down for the junction, but they were still quite fast. And yet, he almost always managed to keep up with them for a couple of minutes. It had been one of his favourite games since he had been old enough to walk and the years of racing the trains had certainly given him speed.

"You can run away. You can outrun those Careers. I'm sure you can even outrun a knife thrown at you."

At this Joseph actually laughed lightly. "Well, I don't know about this."

"I know!" his brother said with conviction. "You can do it! So what if you simply ran the perimeter of the arena? Round and round, always escaping the other tributes, until they die of exhaustion. And then you come back."

Joseph fondly tousled Ehron's head. "Sounds like a plan…"

"Say that you'll follow it. Promise!" With this his brother pulled his one younger-brother-weapon Joseph could not resist: the I-adore-my-big-brother puppy eyes.

"Okay. Okay, I'll try. I promise."

"And promise not to agree on joining the Career Alliance should they offer. You know they often do invite one of the other tributes to join their alliance if they think him promising, only to abandon him at the first instance."

"Ehron, I think you worry too much. I may be fast, but I don't think it would get me an invitation with the Careers. Anyway, I promise that I'll keep as far away from the Careers as possible. One would be a fool to accept them as allies."

With this the nine year old boy was satisfied.

His mother had composed herself enough through that short exchange to put on a small smile as she faced her eldest. "A token… you need a token. I wish I had brought something special with me…" She hesitated for a moment, before taking out her white handkerchief. Joseph was prepared to turn away and give his mother some privacy, should she start crying again, but to his surprise, she handed him the slightly damp rectangle. "Here, take this. It's the best I have with me…"

Joseph looked at the fine lace which edged the linen. He knew the story of this handkerchief only too well. It had been a wedding present from his mother's family to her. With her family being from the Seam he could only imagine how much it had cost the family to present their daughter with so fine a handkerchief as wedding gift. Since then his mother had only taken it out for special occasions: the wedding anniversary, the feast during the Victory Tour and lately when she had to accompany him to the Reapings. He took the small piece of cloth almost reverently. He could even through the tears which had wet the fabric smell the lavender his mother put in her drawers.

* * *

 _Capitol – Head Trainer Alisone Harbinger_

The Training Centre in the Capitol was all quiet. The preparations for this season had been finished this morning, new obstacle courses had been installed, broken dummies replaced and weapons checked. Tomorrow night the tributes would arrive and the day after, these caverns would come to life. Right now only the trainers were already assembled. Much like the gamemakers met to watch the live broadcast of the Reapings together to get an idea about the kids who'd soon be launched into their arena, so did the trainers in their lounge in the Training Centre. In just two days it would be up to them to show those kids chosen today how to hold a knife, how to tie a knot and how to identify an edible plant. It was their job to help those kids in the best way possible, though of course only few actually listened to the advice of the trainers. Time and again they encountered tributes, who would spend all three days at one station, hoping to master that skill, when the short time would be much wiser spent building up stamina or learning about poisonous plants. What almost nobody outside those involved with the Hunger Games knew was that the poisonous plants, the edible insects, the survival stations and the first aid station were always adapted to reflect what the tributes would actually encounter in the arena. After all it would be useless to have the tributes learn everything about poisonous snakes when there wouldn't be a single snake in the arena, not even as a muttation. This year it would be especially interesting to see which tributes would be willing to learn about survival. More than any other year it could well mean the difference between life and death, seeing that they all had to learn about the special water bottles which would be among the equipment in the Cornucopia.

"A girl who looks like the wind whistles through her ribs and a boy with all the traits of being a weepy whimp," one of her colleagues assessed the two tributes from District 12 as they were presented on the stage.

"Ha, at least with the girl it's all natural, whereas your girlfriend just paid lots of money to achieve the same look," another one countered. "And you know that being used to go without a meal often builds up a resilience which can be quite helpful in the arena. At least that one won't be begging her mentor for sponsored food already on the first or second day as many of the Careers would if they had not the supplies from the Cornucopia."

Alisone listened quietly to the banter and smiled at the latter argument. This one was certainly true. She was always displeased with which arrogance most of the tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 preferred to exhibit their weapon skills to scare the other tributes rather than learn about the arena by attending the survival stations. Sure, the Career Districts often included survival lessons in their training, but every time the arena got a bit extreme their tributes were struggling to keep up with the expectations settled upon them. However, she disagreed with the notion of discounting the other tributes such as the two from District 12 who had just left the screen. It simply was unprofessional as trainer to judge their abilities before they had even crossed the threshold of the Training Centre.


	3. Chapter 2 - Reaping District 11

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 2: Reaping – The rooted and the routed (District 11)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

As the two tributes for District 12 were being presented to Panem, the small signal lamp lighted up again, alerting Caesar Flickerman that they were on air within seconds. Donning his stage smile he once again addressed the audience: "As we were watching these dramatic moments going on in District Twelve, their neighbour, District Eleven, was assembling for its own Reaping. It is half past twelve, and we are right in time to catch the opening words of the ceremony in this beautiful district, where the wind rustles softly in the leaves of the trees in the orchards and where the sun shines warmly to help all those fruits to grow and get sweet, just the way we like them. A true paradise."

The direction switched to District 11 and Caesar had time to marvel at the vast number of people that had gathered in one place for this Reaping. To be sure, almost half of Panem's population lived in this district, but after small District 12 it was especially astounding. Where in the coal-mining district all the eligible children and their families fitted into one square, with the rest of the population being directed to neighbouring roads to watch the Reaping on large TV-screens there, in the orchard district it took a huge stadium to assemble all the families who had children in the Reaping. As the History of Panem was recited once more, Caesar let his eyes wander over the many people seated on high-rising bleachers while the field in the centre was filled to the brim with the young of the district. It resembled in many ways more the ant-hill he had once discovered under the stand of a high flower pot in his home's garden than the paradise he had just described to the audience.

* * *

 _District 11 – Madeline Parker, 18 years_

Madeline stepped out of the sturdy tent and breathed in the fresh scent of early morning. It was her favourite hour of the day, when the air was already humid, but not sweltering hot. Even this late in summer, days tended to feel endless, as she and her family laboured away at one harvest or another in the bright sun. But today there would be no work in the fields. Today was Reaping Day. It would be her last Reaping Day. Madeline smiled. At eighteen, both she and her twin-sister Mary were on the brink of leaving behind this ordeal forever. And while there was of course the chance that either of them could be picked, Maddy refused to think about it. What were the chances, even with each of them having taken out tesserae, in a district as large as District 11? Rumours had it that their district held about half of Panem's population. And even if only a fifth of the population was children of Reaping age, chances were slim for each of them.

As she stretched, Madeline could see the large stadium in the distance where the Reaping would take place in the afternoon. It seemed quite far away, when in fact, as she well knew, it was within walking distance. To this day she well remembered the first year she and her sister had been eligible for the Reaping. In that year, her family had accepted the seasonal work in one of the orchards, which happened to be quite at a distance from the stadium. All the years before, it had not mattered much in which part of the district they had accepted work; for the annual census it had been enough to show up at the local square and watch the broadcast of the Reaping. That year however they had been required to make their appearance at the stadium. Which meant two hours of transport in an old, overcrowded bus. More than once Madeline had been sure, she would faint from the heat and the close packed bodies all around her. Added to the anxiousness every twelve year old felt at their first Reaping, she had been such a nervous wreck, that she had cried all through the Reaping ceremony, though luckily she had not been picked that year. Once the Reaping was over, it had taken their parents only one look at their girls to tell them plainly that for the next year they'd better make sure to get work close to the stadium when Reaping neared, even though it meant a loss in pay.

Her family belonged to the so-called 'wanderers', seasonal workers who followed the crops and harvest through the district. Usually they accepted work where the pay was highest, seeing that they had to earn enough during harvest to get them through winter, even if the winters in District 11 tended to be mild. Still, there was food to be bought; tents had to be repaired, and ragged clothes needed to be replaced. Since however all families with children of Reaping age wanted to find work close to the stadium in that time of summer, wages tended to be rather low in that area. But the wanderers were also a close-knit community. Pitch up a tent, show your work-calloused hands and you would get help even if you worked in that area for the first time. With everyone piling their meagre food stocks together, they all got enough dinner to keep them going and working. Besides, Reaping season lasted only a couple of weeks after which they could go for better paying crops.

Madeline loved this migrant work, yet at the same time she had always been glad to know that once a year she would find herself in exactly the same place at the same time as the year before. It was one of the rare stable elements in this wandering life. In this she was almost a bit sad that this was to be her last Reaping. But truly, the joy once it all was over would by far outweigh the sadness. Plus they had made friends in neighbours over the years, some of whom would wander the same route as they did to allow the families to bond even closer. As such she would not really lose everything she valued about Reaping season.

The tent flap moved again and Madeline turned around to see her father emerging from their temporary shelter.

"Good morning, sunshine," he said with a big smile.

Madeline laughed. As a child she had not understood that it was her father's very own greeting for the first woman of his family he'd encounter that day. It was his way to show his appreciation for each and every one of their family. She had always thought he truly meant the weather. That was, until at the age of five, her father had greeted her that way while it was raining cats and dogs outside.

"Good morning to you, too, my dearest, brightest, loveliest rain cloud," she teased him. When she had first found the courage to greet her father this way, he had been taken slightly aback, but when she had explained him that after days of scorching sunshine she loved nothing better than a bright rain cloud, he had laughed and accepted her words as the endearment they were meant to be.

"How about we get things started? Might as well give your sister a couple of minutes with Morris before they will be separated for the eternity of six or seven hours."

Madeline grinned and nodded. Mary and Morris were rather inseparable. It was really cute… she would even go so far as to call it true love. They had met Morris' family a few years ago during Reaping season and their families had gotten along quite well. The year after, they had tried to get work in the same area outside of Reaping season as well and for the last year they had moved around together. It was then that it had become apparent that Mary and Morris were falling in love with each other. So much in love that Morris had even decided to follow them to the stadium for Reaping season, even though he had had his last Reaping the year before. Maddy thought it quite romantic that he'd forego more pay in favour to stay close to Mary. She was sure that a wedding for the two was only a matter of time. And Madeline was happy for them. Sure, there were brief moments where she envied the couple, but not because she wanted Morris to be in love with her. Far from that. Morris was like a brother to her, so having a relationship with him would have been truly awkward. But she would have liked to experience this feeling of closeness her sister shared with Morris herself. She would have liked to experience love. Well, there was always hope that she would encounter the one meant for her over the course of the next year.

It were those thoughts, those dreams for the future, which occupied her mind as she hiked along her family the five miles to the stadium. As she signed up with her sister, had her blood sample taken as well as her fingerprints – requirement for identical twins – she tried to figure out what she wanted in a man as future husband, what looks and what inner qualities, but eventually decided that as long as he respected her and had at least some trace of humour in him, they would most likely work the rest out to their satisfaction. Filing in among the other eighteen year old girls, her mind wandered to the more serious question of what she would do should she happen to fall in love with a settled man and not a wanderer. Could she settle down herself? Or would she feel too tied down and eventually break up with him over this? What if they had children by then? Would she take them with her? Or would he perhaps be willing to take up a wanderer's life? To be true, it was a hard life… especially when it rained so much that the tarpaulin began to leak. It was also perhaps not an ideal life for children… having to start working at an early age, and in addition having to attend classes in the evening. Because only if the children passed the government decreed end-of-year exams where the children allowed to accompany their parents. If they failed the regular exams and also failed the repeat exams, they were taken from their families and put into the community homes. These thoughts kept her so busy that she missed the beginning of the Reaping ceremony and only returned to the here and now when the escort – a corpulent man clad in varying shades of orange every year, which had led to Mary and she dubbing him 'Peaches' – walked over to the glass bowl with the slips of paper with the girls' names. With baited breath and crossed fingers she waited for him to announce this year's girl tribute.

"Mary Francine Parker!"

Ice ran down her spine and congested in her veins. This could not be! Not her sister! Surely this was a mistake! Surely the escort meant another Mary Parker. There simply had to be another Mary Parker he meant! This could not happen, not when they had been so close to being free of this! A strangled scream escaped her throat as she felt her sister next to her move slowly forward. No!

It was only the menacing presence of the white-clad Peacekeepers which kept Madeline from doing something stupid.

* * *

 _District 11 – Cory Hershel, 14 years_

Cory hated Reaping day with all his might. Ever since he had gotten twelve years old, this day meant getting up awfully early to get the daily chores done before he and his family had to catch the bus to the stadium as unfortunately their glasshouse cocoa plantation was probably as far away from the stadium as possible. The only advantage they had was that when they entered the bus it was still empty enough for the whole family to find seats, whereas people getting on the bus at later plantations or villages would be forced to stand all the time. Sure, those who had seats were also squashed to near-death, with people often sitting on each other's laps to get more space or comfort. Still, it was much better to be squashed with a wall or window of the bus on one side and his family on the other side than by strangers all around him. One learned to be grateful for simple things.

Another such simple thing to be grateful for was that until the bus got all cramped, the mind also had enough space to wander, to take in all the sights and views they passed. What to others might only look like endless rows of plantations and orchards with the occasional houses and brooks, to Cory it always meant more. It made him realize how large District 11 was. And in a sense it made him realize how large Panem was. And if he dared spread the wings of imagination further, though the concept was always just out of his grasp, he could understand how large the world was. This all encompassing sense of endlessness these thoughts promised also helped him through those hours he had to stand in the crowded field of the stadium. It was as if his mind was rebelling and asking: Why, if the world is so large, do we have to force so many people together in so small a space?

This year though he would try a new focus for the stadium. Instead of forgetting his surroundings, he wanted to observe details. Focus on one person and then another, perhaps the trampled grass below his feet or the pattern of the shirt the boy in front of him wore. He was certain that this way he would learn even more about the world he lived in than just by gazing at the landscape out of the window of a passing bus. Anything to keep his mind from the possibility that his name might get picked…

Hurrying to get his tasks done, Cory checked that all the window panes of the glass house roof were properly closed so that no tracker jacker could enter the glass house in their absence. Tracker jackers loved feasting on the nectar of the cocoa flowers, but they left behind some of their venom, poisoning the fruit that followed the flower. And while it was easy enough to detect a poisoned fruit by colour and shape, cocoa was difficult enough to grow in glass houses. Consequently every poisoned fruit was subtracted from the plantation workers' pay. One might think that as such it might perhaps be better to never open the skylights of the glasshouses, but in this case the humidity would get too high even for the cocoa plants. They needed to breathe, so the glass houses had to be aired. Besides, the midges had to get inside to pollinate the flowers the proper way. And nets had been proven useless, since the tracker jackers got all aggressive that they shredded the nets once they smelled the cocoa flowers. Consequently the airing of the glass houses with cocoa plants with flowers had to be done in the early morning hours, when the tracker jacker activity was low.

Usually airing the glass houses was not Cory's job, seeing that most of the days he had to get up only an hour later and get ready for school, though after school he would help at the plantation. The workers who did the airing on the other hand could go back to bed to catch another three or four hours of sleep before starting with the rest of their chores. By staggering the workforce on the plantation they had a good system running, keeping up with the demands of the cocoa plants and the demands of the Capitol for the cocoa seeds. But today they all needed to go to the Reaping, so all had to get up early to water and air the plants.

When he was finally sure that he had closed all windows, he hurried outside, locked the door and hastened back to the main building of the plantation, where they would all catch an early breakfast. Most likely it would be tessera mush with overripe fruits his mother got cheap at the market. These always had a slightly tingly taste, but he was used to it and it was better than plain tessera mush. Cory often wondered how the cocoa tasted, once it was processed.

Since nobody had time today to linger over breakfast, the fourteen year old found himself sooner than he liked in his tiny bedchamber with the strict order to wash and get dressed in his Reaping clothes. Well, the dressing itself had not been the problem. The clothes however… As he tried on the pants he realized that he had obviously grown several centimetres over the last year, though only in height. With his everyday clothes he had not really noticed it, seeing that he always wore shorts of varying lengths and old cotton t-shirts from his father. Despite the baggy look of those large shirts, he loved those best, because they were laundered so often that the fabric was worn so thin it kept him wonderfully cool even in the middle of summer. His Reaping outfit however was supposed to a white buttoned shirt and long dress pants. Unfortunately right now the legs of the pants were several centimetres above the ankle. This would simply not do!

"Mum!" Cory called dismayed.

However, it was his father who first reached his chamber. Leaning heavily on the doorframe he burst out laughing when he saw his son with high water pants.

"Mum, I can't go to the Reaping! Not looking like this!" Cory complained, shooting his father a dirty look. Not enough that he had to attend this stupid ceremony with the Sword of Damocles dangling over his head by the way of several slips with his name upon them in the Reaping bowl, he would not do so making a laughingstock of himself by wearing high water pants.

"Oh dear… And look at the time…" The mother pondered the problem for a moment. They had less than a quarter of an hour to get ready for the bus, too little time for changing a set of her husband's old trousers to fit Cory. "Okay, Cory, you change back into an easy pair of shorts, but keep on the good shirt. Louis, fetch the scissors, the needle and the black thread from my workbasket. I need to go and get changed," she eventually said resolutely.

Cory looked after his mother with questioning eyes, wondering what she had in mind, since she had already been dressed in her good clothes.

The father, who had sobered in the meantime, saw his look. "Her skirt is dark, son. Dark enough to give her the fabric with which to lengthen the legs of your pants. She'll be sewing while we ride the bus. So better not keep her waiting."

The boy gulped. He knew how much the skirt meant to his mother. But like his mother he knew no better solution to the current dilemma. So instead he vowed to save enough money over the course of the next year to buy her some pretty fabric, ribbon or lace with which to remake the skirt she was now cutting to pieces.

It was an entirely new feeling to ride the bus wearing shorts. Never before had he known how hot, sticky and uncomfortable the seats were. So much so that eventually he gave up his seat for a mother of two and preferred to stand. But eventually, by the time they reached the stadium, his mother had successfully fixed the pants. By then Cory no longer minded that his father had picked the white thread instead of the black and that the skirt fabric had a different sheen than the fabric of his pants. At least the pants were now long enough that he could convince himself that with the different fabrics and white stitches he was simply trying to set a new fashion trend. So he held his head high as he filed in among his year mates.

He even held his head high, as his name was called. All eyes of Panem were on him as he walked up to the stage. He could not let them see that his pants were anything other than a new trend.

* * *

 _District 11 – Madeline Parker, 18Y_

It was so unfair! They had been so close to the goal, so close to being free and now this! Madeline still couldn't believe it. So yes, they had taken out tesserae every year. But for goodness sake, their family was not that large. So even the accumulated slips shouldn't have meant much in a district as large as theirs. And yet, logic told her that all it took was one slip.

She wanted to rant and scream and cry, because the games were taking away her sister, her other half. Because no matter how much she tried to convince herself, deep down she knew that her sister did not stand a chance against the Careers. People from District 11 never did. After all it was more than twenty years now that this district had last seen one of their own crowned victor in the games. How was she supposed to go on with half of herself gone? It was a selfish thought, but Madeline couldn't help it.

Luckily her parents had understood that Mary and she needed some time alone to say their goodbyes. And it was because she was now alone with her twin sister that Madeline refrained from screaming and ranting. It wouldn't help her sister. Mary needed her to be strong so that she herself could be strong the upcoming days and weeks.

Her eyes fell upon her sister, who was sitting on the sofa, hugging herself protectively. Mary looked so lost, shell-shocked even.

At that moment the door burst open to reveal Morris. "Baby!" With a strangled cry he rushed over to Mary's side, kneeling in front of her, clasping both her hands in his own. "Oh Baby! I started running here the moment I heard your name called."

His words finally seemed to reach Mary, who blinked and then looked first at her boyfriend and then at her sister, who was now standing behind Morris. A choked sob escaped her and she cried out like a small child: "Maddy? What have I done? What have we done?" With the last words she locked eyes with Morris.

The tall young man gulped visibly and rose with shaking knees to sit next to Mary on the sofa. "Madeline", he began, but Mary shook her head. "No! No. I have to tell her."

"What? What is it?" Madeline asked, trying to be patient with her sister who was caught in another wave of drowning tears, but at the same time she knew that time was scarce. Soon, too soon, the Peacekeepers would come to take Mary with them to the station.

"Maddy… I… I'm pregnant." The hysteria in Mary's voice rendered the last words almost inaudible, but Madeline still caught them.

"You… you are… what?" Disbelieve coloured her voice.

"We had wanted to tell everyone at the feast tonight", Morris offered as explanation. "We wanted to tell them that we are engaged. And… well…" He laid a tell-tale hand on Mary's stomach.

Madeline's mind whirled at this disclosure. Her sister was pregnant! Far along enough to be certain of it yet not far along enough to show… She weighed their options. Telling the Capitol was useless. It would not make a difference to them. A couple of years ago a seventeen year old girl had been reaped who was mother a newborn babe. It had not mattered in the least. And with nobody volunteering for her, she had to entrust the wellbeing of her child to her family and go into that damned arena. She had fought like a wildcat. But in the end, it had not been enough. So Mary being pregnant would not mean anything to those who organized the games. At worst, if they found out, they would slip Mary a pill, making her lose the child before she was launched into the arena so that this would not become a problem later.

Madeline scowled at that thought. No! She couldn't and wouldn't let the Capitol kill her niece of nephew! It didn't matter whether it happened in the arena or outside of it. And in the split of a moment, she had come to a decision. "Make quick, Mary, give me your hair ribbon."

"What?" Mary looked at her twin-sister with astonishment.

Madeline meanwhile was removing her own ribbon. "Give me the ribbon", she reiterated. "I'm going to twist yours and mine together and take it with me as token." Her voice quieted down with the last words.

"With… you… token?"

"Listen, Mary, or should I say Madeline? I'm not going to let the Capitol kill my niece or nephew. I'm going to take your place", she whispered. "Nobody will know the difference… We are wearing identical gowns today; the only difference is the ribbon in our hair. And nobody will think anything of it, if I wear both as twisted bracelet for token. You will take my place. You will be Madeline. With only one of us there, they will not ask for fingerprints, only go for the DNA."

It was Morris who first caught on. He looked at Madeline with a mix of astonishment and gratefulness. "Are you sure?" he asked equally quiet.

"No, but we don't have the time to wait till I am sure. Just promise me that you'll do everything in your power to protect the baby. Try your utmost to make sure that it only knows tesserae as word, not because he or she has to take it. Promise!"

The young man nodded. "I promise."

"As do I." Mary added, still tear-stricken, but now no longer hysterical.

"Good. Should anyone ask questions about the parentage of the child, blame it on a drunken mistake. Say you mixed us up and things got heated before you realized the mistake, Morris…" Then, in a louder voice, loud enough to be heard by the Peacekeeper who was stationed outside the room, she added: "Morris, be strong. For me. And be there for Madeline. Take care of her. I know Maddy will do the same for you. Be strong. And don't forget me."

With this she signalled the two lovers to leave her. Wiping away a silent tear, Madeline watched them go, Morris having put an arm around Mary's shoulder. If anyone saw them, that person would only think that they were giving each other support… one leaving behind his girlfriend, the other leaving behind her twin.

Left alone, Madeline cried. For herself and for her sister. Because she knew – and Mary would eventually realize – that she could never come back. That her sister's decision to keep her pregnancy a secret till after the Reaping had robbed Madeline of the chance to volunteer officially in her stead and have a fighting chance.

* * *

 _District 11 – Cory Hershel, 14Y_

Saying goodbye to his parents had been strange. It was as if the moment his name had been called out at the Reaping, one part of his self had detached itself from the rest. That the person walking up to the stage, worrying about something so trivial and superficial like his mismatched trousers had been some stranger. Anyone, but not Cory. And it had continued this way.

Even when his parents had come into the room of the Justice Building it had been as if Cory had not been there. This stranger had even tried to comfort his parents with the notion that he might get to see the place in District 1 which processed their cocoa on his way to the Capitol. That he actually might get to taste the chocolate derived from it. As if his parents cared for cocoa in that moment.

Cory wanted to shudder at the memory of this, but how did one shudder when one felt all detached from his body? He had sounded like a gibbering idiot, all excited about embarking on an adventure, from which he'd return one day with a treasure trove of stories to tell his grandkids on a warm summer's night, instead of being lead to some entertainment-disguised slaughtering. He would never have grandkids. His parents would never have grandkids. At least not from him. So why could he not have acted like any normal boy in his situation would have done? Cried a bit, allowed his mother to comfort him, getting advice on being tough from his father? Why had he not told his mother how sorry he was, that now he couldn't earn the money to buy her some pretty fabric to remake her skirt? To show that he cared? As a result the half-hug his mother had offered on parting had been absolutely awkward, plainly telling how bewildered she had been at her son's behaviour. His father had just stared at him and not spoken a single word.

Even now, that he was alone, Cory still was locked in this state. His body just sat there, looking resigned to all the world. His other half, the feeling part, the one he thought he truly was, just didn't know what to do. He felt like he was in way over his head. That a single slip of paper had widened his whole perspective in a never dreamed of way, while it was narrowing in focus at the same time. What he felt simply made no sense to him. So yes, he was a tiny bit excited to see more of Panem. But at the same time he knew how deadly a price he would be paying for that and this scared him to no end.

The door opened again and Krish, his best friend, entered and held out a frayed leather band. It was obviously meant to be his token. And where his parents had failed, Krish succeeded. With this simple piece of leather to act as tether. All of a sudden, Cory felt whole again, as if body and mind had once more merged.

He exhaled loudly. "Krish", he said with a sigh of relief. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course I'd come. You knew that, stupid!"

Cory nodded, then shook his head. "I didn't know about that. Well, part of me knew, but another part of me didn't. I felt like I was kind of a zombie."

Krish grinned. "That would have been a sight… not yet in the arena and already being an undead. But hey, perhaps you should have stayed this way. As an undead you couldn't be killed the ordinary arena way."

"Haha… most likely one of the Careers would have gotten a Zombie-be-gun weapon as sponsor gift."

"Well, yes", Krish conceded. "After all, we couldn't have a zombie as victor. Wouldn't do for you to eat the brains of others on your victory tour."

Cory giggled despite the gory topic. But somehow it helped. That was the way it had always between Krish and himself. No matter how hard the work at the plantation was, no matter how small their portion of food had felt, no matter how bratty the attitude of the overseer's children had been in school, the two boys had always found something to amuse them and lighten up the mood. And as all teenage boys, they had not really cared if other people found these things equally amusing or perhaps downright gross.

Krish joined his giggle, but eventually sobered. He handed the piece of leather to Cory. "You know what that means."

Cory nodded. He had instantly recognized the leather – and the message it conveyed. The strip of leather had once swathed the handle of a machete. It was a reminder that he was not as untrained a tribute as many would think he was. He knew how to handle a weapon. The Careers might have been trained in wielding fancy swords, but a machete could be just as deadly. He might not have much of a chance in the long run, but he certainly could cause some damage. Of course, a lot of this depended on actually getting his hands on a machete or similar kind of weapon, but still, it offered this tiny sliver of hope, without which Cory knew he'd just be a hollow shell on entering the games.

"Thank you!" He quickly hugged Krish.

* * *

 _Capitol – Dante Whittaker_

As the name Hershel was announced on TV, Dante Whittaker looked up from the crossword puzzle he had been attempting to solve until the more interesting districts came up. True, his family's fortune stemmed from the produce of District 11, but that did not mean he had to favour them in any way. Yet the name Hershel made a bell in his mind go off. He knew that name… It took him a few moments to realize that it was exactly from his family's business that he knew the name. Usually he did not recall the names of the families working on the various plantations for the family all over District 11, but Mrs. Hershel acted as cook and housekeeper for the main workforce on one of the plantations, so her name stood out a bit. So if this Cory Hershel was her son…

Tossing aside the crossword puzzle, Dante got up and went into his home office. He wanted to know for sure. And the broadcast of the Reaping would next only show the third rendition of the History of Panem, so he could afford to miss that part of the program. Pulling up the list of employees on his computer he soon enough found the name he had been looking for. Cory Hershel was indeed the son of the cook he had recalled. But furthermore, the boy also worked for the company. This in itself was nothing extraordinary in District 11, where children tended to pick up jobs as soon as they turned twelve, the age most jobs required as minimum age. But still, the fact that this boy, this tribute, worked for him, had Dante feel that he should somehow support the boy. Sponsor him.

"Dante? What are you doing in here?" his wife Darla asked from the door.

"Cory Hershel, the boy tribute from District Eleven… he works for me."

"So?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

"I feel like I owe it to him to sponsor him."

Darla was silent for a moment or two. Then she slowly came over to his desk. "I see… could be a good point in advertising… showing how caring the company is when it comes to its employees. Yes, it could really be a good move. So, how much did you think about sending in as sponsor money?"

Dante shrugged. "I had not yet thought about a figure. Perhaps…" He scribbled something on a piece of paper, added some other figure, subtracted something and finally slid the paper over to his wife.

"This much?" she asked, not quite agreeing with him. "That would certainly be most generous. It is more than the school fees for Odo for one year and you always complain about these."

Odo was their son and only child and attended one of the finest schools the Capitol offered to the affluent. And his wife was correct. He always thought that the fees were too high for what the school offered. It was not that he did not want his son to receive a good education, but the fees were more than it would cost were he to engage a tutor for Odo and have him be schooled in private lessons. "You are right. It would not seem appropriate to spend more money on a boy we don't know than we spend on the education of our own son." Dante crossed out that figure and started calculating again. He then did a quick search on his computer and scribbled even more figures on the paper. "How about going by something more practical. I just looked up the average price for a bottle of water as sponsor gift. We could settle on sending him a bottle of water on the fourth or fifth day should he make it that far. It usually costs this," he pointed to a figure, which was about a quarter of the sum he had at first suggested.

"Better," his wife agreed. "However, this is an average price. Which means an average arena. But we don't know what the arena will be like this year. There could be plenty of water and we would seem cheap sending him even more. Or there could be scarcely any water and the price for a bottle on fourth or fifth day could well exceed your first sum."

"Of course, of course… too unreliable…"

It took them almost all through the Reaping of District 10 to come to a solution, which was acceptable to them both. More than once, Darla had to point out to him that the sum equalled a certain investment they had planned for the factory here in the Capitol and that surely it would be unfair to deprive their employees in their own city of the new coffee machine they really needed since the old one did not offer enough cartridges to also include the new line of healthy flavours they wanted to offer their employees as part of their new health program. But eventually they settled on a nice tidy sum. It was the same amount Cory would have earned in one year. Sounded fair, didn't it?

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 3 - Reaping District 10

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 3: Reaping – Sheep and Snails (District 10)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"I don't know how you feel, but I got a little hungry during District Eleven's Reaping. No wonder, considering that it was lunch time," Caesar told the audience cheerfully and for perhaps the first time in this day's broadcast his cheer was not false. He loved food and loved talking about food. If not for his fame in the Hunger Games business, he would totally have tried for his own cooking show. "Luckily the cook here at the studio prepared me a delicious steak. You know the kind… tender, evenly marbled, cooked to the point… He must have anticipated my appetite, considering that the best steak can only be got, if the meat is at room temperature before putting it into the skillet, and any true gourmet will know that bringing meat from the refrigerator to room temperature takes about an hour. So while I was sitting in the make-up room, he was already thinking of my lunch. Thank you!" And he blew a kiss in the imagined direction of his cook. "Talking about meat, you all know where from we get our best meat… Yes, you are right: District Ten, the nation's livestock district. And we are just in time to catch the Reaping ceremony there. Who knows, maybe the tributes from this district will be able to tell us even more about how to get the perfect steak, right from the perfect cow."

The light above the camera was turned off and Caesar retrieved the half-eaten plate with his lunch he had hidden under the anchorman desk during his introductory speech for District 10. Now that they were in for yet another rendition of the History of Panem, he would have enough time to finish his meal at leisure.

* * *

 _District 10 – Tracey Chios, 15 years_

As soon as she was done with changing her clothes like her sister had ordered her to do, Tracey sneaked out of the house, making her way swiftly to the stable which housed the ewes with this year's lambs. She simply had to check how Floud was doing. She had spent all morning watching the little lamb and holding it up every so often so that it could drink from its mother without having to put weight on the broken leg. It needed all the strength it could get if it was to survive. It had been exhausting, but with every greedy gulp little Floud did, Tracey felt more confident that the lamb would make it, that it would grow into a strong sheep, giving them good wool. Now the lamb was sleeping peacefully. Tracey smiled at the picture of it with its mother standing guard over it. She backed away to the door and smacked into something soft and solid at the same time. Turning around, her smile crumpled.

"What did I say about staying put and above all staying clean?" the sharp voice of her older sister Lia demanded.

"Lia, please… You have to understand… I had to look after Floud!" Tracey protested.

"Right now I don't care about your pet lamb!" the young woman scolded. "Just look at you! What will the people at the field think of you? What will they think of us?"

Tracey looked down at herself and instantly saw that her legs were dirty from the muck in the stable and when she had hugged Floud she must have touched one of the ewe's teats as her sleeve showed a distinctive milk stain. She sighed. Lia was right to scold her. It was Reaping Day. The one day absolutely everyone dressed up in fine clothes to parade them in front of the rest of Panem. Consequently everyone who was not dressed accordingly was looked down upon, even sneered at. Lia, at seventeen and only two years older than herself, looked like a true lady, wearing one of their mother's old dresses. Even her posture was different when she wore this dress, much more upright, not so worn down by the responsibility of taking care of her father and sister and the household after their mother's death. Next to her, Tracey always felt like a klutz. Even her best dress hung on her lanky frame like it belonged to someone else. It didn't help that it was not in Tracey's nature to sit quietly at home, mending clothes. She loved being out among the sheep. She was even the best sheep-wrestler at all the farms in their corner of the district when it came to holding the animals for shearing, beating all the boys and even the old seasoned men.

"I'll go and get changed", she offered.

"And what will you wear?" Lia asked with raised eyebrows.

"Something clean?" Tracey suggested.

"Forget it! None of your other clothes are dresses. And I will not have my sister wear trousers to the Reaping." With this Lia dragged her sister to the main house. There she snatched a rough brush and began scrubbing her sister's legs. Right then she didn't care that Tracey squirmed like one of the sheep about to be shorn for the first time. She also didn't care that by the time she was done, the legs looked an angry red. She knew it would fade soon enough.

"And what about the stain?" Tracey carefully asked.

Her sister looked at her for a long moment, then turned to the trunk in which she kept their mother's clothes. Sifting through the different items, she eventually held up a soft dark cardigan. "Here, put this on over the dress."

Tracey looked at her in dismay. "A cardigan? Lia, please… it's too hot out there to wear a cardigan!"

"You should have thought about this before you went into the stable."

The appearance of their father put an end to the discussion and Tracey followed her sister, donning the cardigan as she walked. There was one thing she was grateful for about the situation: That their farm belonged to the town at the edge of which was the huge field used for assembling the masses for the Reaping. So unlike others she had not to suffer in her cardigan for hours like the families who had to catch a ride on one of the converted trucks. Still, she hated the fact that she had to wear a dress. She hated dresses. They were so unpractical. One had to watch one's every step. And of course she hated the reason why she had to wear a dress. But then, which child in Panem did not hate Reaping Day? She tried not to think about the possibility of her being picked too much. So yes, she had a couple of slips in the bowl, some more than was required for her age, because the previous winter had been hard, as had the one in her first year. Luckily her family was well off enough to avoid having to take out tesserae every year, but sometimes it just happened. Consequently it was far better for the state of her mind to focus on something as silly as her dress.

When they reached the field, Tracey was immediately greeted enthusiastically by several boys from her class. Tracey simply did not get along well with the girls, but she got along great with the boys. Of course, every now and then it would give her a sharp sting to see one of her friends cast a wistful glance at one of the more finicky girls and she realized that her comrades would never see her as a girl. But then she'd remind herself that she didn't want her friends to see her as a girl, if it meant her having to be all finicky herself.

"What's up, Tracey? How come you wear a dress?"

"Haha, very funny, Sami, you know that I always wear a dress on Reaping Day. But how about you try it yourself next year? Really, it would only be fair if all boys were to dress in a silly gown for once on Reaping Day. We also might get our tributes more attention this way", she suggested.

"Another time perhaps… How about next generation?" Sami made to snatch a bit of the skirt, but Tracey was quicker. She swiftly side-stepped his hand and then dove at him midriff.

"Tracey!" the sharp voice of her sister reprimanded her.

"Hi Lady Lia", Sami said, immediately straightening himself and his clothes. "We were just joking."

"Joking, my…" Lia stopped mid-sentence to suppress the swear words which lay on the tip of her tongue.

Tracey smiled as she hastily fixed her clothes again. Nobody could swear as beautifully as her sister, yet the older she got, the less she did so. At least in public. "Come on, fool head", she said to her friend and dragged him to the registration line.

Having been identified, they had to part ways. "See you at the rope-line", Sami called after her as he made his way over to the boys' section.

As she elbowed her way through the other fifteen year old girls, Tracey grinned. It was perhaps a good thing that her sister was two sections further to the front than she was. This way she would not see that her younger sister was passing the time of the presentation of the History of Panem playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with her best friend. Or their other friends betting on who would win. It was always more fun than listening to the same dull words over and over again. And it kept them from going crazy with anxiousness.

Tracey was just in the lead, the score being eleven to seven in her favour, when the escort was welcomed by the mayor. He was a crazy man, who dyed the skin of his bald head every year in a different colour. Tracey and her friends supposed that he was secretly trying to guess which colour Caesar Flickerman would use this year for his wig and eyes so that they could match. They even kept track of it and so far, their escort had managed to come up with a colour which horribly clashed with Caesar's far more often than not and he had yet to pick the right colour.

As the victors' names were read, Tracey started to chant her yearly mantra in her head: 'Neither Lia nor Sami, nor me, nor Sven. Neither Lia nor Sami, nor me, nor Sven. Neither Lia nor Sami, nor me, nor Sven. Neither Lia, nor Sami, nor…'

"Tracey Chios!" the deep voice of the escort rang out over the crowd.

* * *

 _District 10 – Maarck Wijngaard, 17 years_

"Maarck? Son, are you here?" A rough looking man poked his head into one of the small green houses with the long rows of shelves with trays on it.

At the other end a younger voice, but already unmistakably related to the man, answered: "Close the door, dad. You are letting the insects in."

"Do you think I'm stupid, son? Don't forget that it was I, who first taught you about the insects." The man ventured further into the glasshouse, stopping here and there to look at one of the pens holding the hatchling snails.

A tall, thin lad, who had been sitting at a rickety table, looked up and grinned only slightly apologetic. "Mum supposedly also knows, yet she always forgets."

The father nodded. Then he looked at the notes his son had been poring over. "How is it going?"

"I would like to take some of the lesser snails to try a new mix of soil on them. I found some old journals in the school library which mentions using artificial fibres to stabilize the soil. I'm not sure we'll be able to get the exact same one, but I thought that if we shredded some of cheaper clothing District Eight produces, we might get almost the same result."

"Don't you dare suggest we shred your mother's favourite summer dress." The father wagged his finger at his son.

Maarck smiled. Her summer dresses were his mother's one weakness of vanity. Usually she preferred lasting quality in clothes, but with the summer dresses, she accepted having to go for the cheaper quality if it allowed her to have a new dress every year. "Well, they would be suitable. But only when they are almost rendered to rags. I don't know how all the dye and other things mixed in to get the fabric would affect the snails. But those which are all but rags have lost most of their chemical enhancements, so are as close to the original fibres as possible."

"In this case, I dare say your mother won't mind that you experiment with her clothing. What do you try to achieve with the fibres?"

"According to the old treatise I found, it helps with the airing of the soil and washing it when we have to remove the mucus."

"Sounds really good." The man was impressed. But then again, ever since his son had been old enough to reach up over the work tables and help with their snail farm he had exhibited an instinctive understanding for the matter and a natural talent for improving their snails in number, size and quality which by far exceeded that of his father. Maybe, the father thought, this talent skipped two generations… It had been his own grandfather who had started the snail farming business and from what his father had told him, he had been an exceptional snail farmer. His father and he himself had only been able to follow the instructions left to them and keep the farm going, but they lacked the talent for improvement. Now in Maarck it seemed they were in for another generation which would improve the farm and thereby the family's fortune. It were tiny things, such as the calcium level in the soil and mixing ground limestone with the organic material which had given their snails stronger shells and in turn stronger snails. "We could ask your mother…" He stopped abruptly, remembering why he had come here in the first place to look for his son. "Talking about your mother, she asked me to come and get you. It's time to get changed and go to the field."

Maarck sighed. For a few precious hours he had been able to forget what day it was. He had just revelled in the fact that today he had not to attend school and therefore had time to puzzle over the facts and ideas he had for their snail farm. On normal days the hours before school were filled with tending the snails, checking the environmental controls, dousing the live plants and adjusting the lights, while the hours after school were filled with transferring snails to new pens, airing and cleaning soil and pens, preparing food for them and have everything ready for them when they became agile again with dusk. Today however he had finally been able to work on the idea of the fibres, where to get them and how much would be required for a small experimental pen.

"Come on, let's get this Reaping over with and then we can ask your mother for the rags. Perhaps we can even set up the experiment tonight already", the father said.

The field was already buzzing with people when Maarck signed in and made his way over to the other seventeen year old boys, where he was met with several friendly greetings. Though quite a few considered him kind of an oddity because of the kind of livestock his family grew, he got along with them well enough and was greeted affably. It did not hurt his popularity either that while unconventional, the snails earned them good money so that he was considered part of the upper middle class of the district and as such quite a catch in the eye of many a farm girl, who appraised him from the neighbouring sections.

"Maarck, this is not fair!" one of his classmates complained. "You look like a bean stalk and get all the attention and my good looks get all ignored."

"Only today, only today, Timor. You know well enough that you get all the attention at the yearly wrestling match in school when I get thrown to the mat by you in the first round already and have to nurse a bruised nose as well as a bruised ego", Maarck countered good naturedly.

"Still, it's not fair. When we were kids in first grade you used to scare all the girls with your pet snails who all thought you gross and now they swoon as if snails were the most beautiful animals."

"They still think snails are gross", Maarck said matter-of-factly. "They just like the fact that my mother has a new dress every year for the Reaping and that I don't have to take out tesserae, totally dismissing that snail-farming also comes with lots of work and lots of slimy snails."

"Hey, we are not all that shallow", a girl from the other side of the rope called out.

"I didn't say that", Maarck defended himself. "Let me put it this way: The girls who are not shallow, who have class, are not the girls who try to catch my eye on Reaping Day. They wait for me to discover their class and then woo them." He made a slight bow in the direction of the girl. "Of course they also don't mind the material gain I could offer, but they would care more for my personality. For their own sakes of course. They would want to be sure that I'm no violent drunkard who treats them like dirt."

"So, are you?"

"A violent drunkard?" Maarck grinned. "Not yet, but who knows…" He winked an eye at the girl.

"That's exactly what I mean", Timor complained. "You get all the attention. So, what do you think my chances with the girls would be were I to grow insects like you?"

"What kind of insects?"

"What is easy to get?"

"Spiders", the girl interrupted laughing.

Timor looked down rejected. "Very funny…"

"Not really", Maarck tried to console him. "All it'd take is for the Capitol to think spiders are the new delicacy and they'd come looking for someone willing to farm spiders."

"Remind me to visit this year's tribute to convince him that he'll drop a hint about spider delicacies during his interview in the Capitol."

"Guys, really, be a bit more serious about the Reaping. This is nothing to joke about", the girl gently rebuked them.

"Right." Both said in unison. And not a second too early, because the ceremony was about to begin. Still, Maarck could not help and steal occasional glances at the outspoken girl. He liked girls such as her. He wanted someone who was well able to give some back and not a doormat. Maybe he would try to get to know her a bit better over the next weeks and months. Of course only if she was likewise interested. Something he was not sure of, despite the pleasant banter they had just exchanged. He was always well aware that he was too lanky to be considered good looking. There was certainly never the same admiring look in the girls' eyes when they looked at him than when they looked at Timor when he was presenting his broad chest with a sheen of sweat making it glisten at the wrestling competition. But maybe…

All such thoughts however came to a sudden end when the bald escort called out his name.

"Maarck Wijngaard."

* * *

 _District 10 – Tracey Chios, 15Y_

Tracey was angry. Furious even. Why, oh, why had the odds been so not in her favours? Why she? Why not one of the prissy girls? Most likely they would have even liked all the attention lavished on them before the actual games. Plus they were useless here unlike her. What would her father do without her on the farm? Lia was good with the house but not with the sheep.

She began pacing as she waited for her family to join her in the room. Tracey tried not to think of their meeting. It would be all teary, but tears did not help her. What she needed was a plan. A solid plan, which would help her to get back home. But time was scarce to develop such a plan.

The door opened, revealing Lia and their father. Tracey reluctantly joined them on the sofa, but couldn't bring herself to truly give them her attention. Didn't they see that she needed the time to formulate a plan? She had to catalogue her strengths and see how they could be of use to her in the arena. She was quick, which was definitely an advantage, but other tributes would be swift as well. She knew how to wrestle, but that only worked in hand to hand combat, not against long-range weapons especially the Careers would most likely have. The only protection against the Careers was making it into their alliance, but Tracey knew instinctively that this would not happen. She was not the kind of material the Careers ever accepted into their alliance. She was too headstrong, too stubborn. And the Careers always expected a member of their alliance from one of the outer districts to bow to their orders. Tracey bowed to nobody. No, she'd have to form her own alliance. An alliance, where she could be the leader. She knew that she could lead. After all, the boys followed her lead in school readily enough.

But what kind of qualities should she look for in potential allies? What would she need in the arena? She immediately decided that she would only accept those tributes as potential allies who were able to keep up with her pace. It was no use having an ally which would slow them down when they had to run away. But what if the others were faster than she was? Outrunning her, leaving her behind to be thrown at the wolves of the Career alliance? So, the allies had to be swift, but not too fast. What about weapons?

Her sister tugged her hard at the sleeve, yanking her back from her mental planning sphere to the teary reality.

"What?" Tracey snapped.

"Sorry, your Majesty", Lia mocked. "But you were beginning to scare both dad and me. Care to join us? I think there is a certain family member among us we have to bid goodbye."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Lia", her sister grumbled.

"Hush, girls. Don't quarrel. Not when this could be the last…" Choked sobs prevented the father from continuing the sentence, but they all knew what he meant.

"Don't worry, dad", Tracey said. "I'll come up with a plan and win and come back here."

"But Tracey, my little baby, you are only fifteen."

Tracey hated it when her father called her his baby. "So what? Two years ago a fourteen year old won." She had to convince her father of this or else he would break down. And she didn't want the picture of him breaking downto be the one which accompanied her into the arena. She put her hand on his arm. "Dad, really, think about it. I stand a rather good chance. Think of all the wrestling I got out of the sheep. I also know how to put down an animal if necessary. So I could hunt in the arena to get food. And I'm a decent runner. What I don't know in terms of weapons I can learn during training. You'll see. I'll be better off than many." As she listed all that spoke in her advantage, she purposefully omitted that hunting or putting down an animal equally went for other tributes. Her face contorted into a frightening, grim mask. Well, if she had to kill someone, then so be it. It was the Capitol's fault after all. Without them, there'd be no Hunger Games, no Reaping and her name would never have been picked. All the more reason to be furious at them.

The Peacekeeper knocked to let them know that their time was almost up since there were other visitors for her as well.

"A token", Lia suddenly recalled. "You need a token."

"I don't need one. I have something better. I have a home. And I'll return", Tracey said vehemently.

Her sister knew her too well to press the point and signalled their father that they had best leave now before the Peacekeepers came to remove them forcibly. A quick hug from the quiet man and Tracey was alone again. But not for long. A few moments later the door opened again and Sami entered.

"The others were not sure you'd agree to see them", he said a little nervously. "They were afraid you would start your arena practice on them. You certainly looked furious enough as you mounted the steps to the stage."

"I was and still am furious. But I'm not a wild animal. I know where to direct my anger." Tracey shook her head. Boys!

"I know. That's why I'm here." Sami paused for a moment then asked: "Are you all set for the games? Any plans? Token?"

"Don't you dare offer me a token", Tracey spat. "I don't need a token. I'll be back and then I'll have the real thing. And yes, I have a plan." Well, so far it was only the conclusion that she'd need allies, furthermore one who knew a bit more about procuring food in an arena than her, because even if she managed to hunt and kill an animal, she now realized she was not quite sure how to prepare it afterwards so as not to give herself food-poisoning.

"Good. And yeah, I respect your opinion on tokens. Besides, we are not allowed to give you anything remotely useful. They wouldn't let you keep it", Sami agreed. "Well, I'd best leave you to your planning. See you in a few weeks." Whether he truly believed this or not, Tracey could not decipher, but it was good to hear those words anyway.

* * *

 _District 10 – Maarck Wijngaard, 17Y_

As he shook hands with the sullen girl, Maarck instantly knew that they would not be allies, though often enough the mentors suggested for a district to stick together. Unless of course age difference and thereby chances, or outstanding skills, or disabilities spoke against it. In their case, with only two years in terms of age difference, the mentors might suggest it, but honestly, it was not going to happen. Maarck could feel it by the way Tracey grasped his hand. Too much anger for a reasonable ally. And usually anger got you killed in the arena sooner rather than later.

With thoughts like these, Maarck quietly made his way to the Justice Building, accompanied by the ever-present Peacekeepers.

"You will win. I know it!"

Maarck turned around, slightly taken by surprise. He had not heard his parents enter the room. This did not bode well for him. What if he zoned out like this, pondering a problem, when he was in the arena? No, from now on he had to focus on the present. Though perhaps the menacing atmosphere of death awaiting him at every step would keep his adrenaline levels high enough, once he was in the arena, that he did not have to worry about zoning out. Anyway, focussing on the present was not wrong right now either. "Dad, please…" Maarck gulped. "You know I will do my best, that I will not give up, but I'm nothing to the Careers!" He was clearly uncomfortable with his father's confidence.

"Neither was last year's girl from District Eight," his father countered. "Being a Career is not everything. It takes cleverness, something you have in abundance."

"It also takes luck. Dad, really, nobody could have foreseen that half the Careers would be killed by the avalanche on the third day."

"That may be, but Maarck, son, don't you see? You would never have been stupid enough to enter that area when there had been no deaths on the second day. This terrain told plainly of the gamemaker interference potential. So for all their training, the Careers did not know how to read the terrain. But you do. Your experiments at home – they tell you more about soil than just the percentage of organic material and minerals. You can tell by the colour how much sand or clay is in the soil. You will be able to tell the same about the arena. This is your advantage."

Maarck slowly nodded. While he still was not convinced about his chances, the arguments his father listed had merit.

His mother was less eloquent, and, judging by the force with which she hugged him, less convinced of his chances. Still, the way she held him, expressed unconditional love and support.

Time with them was up way too early. Before Maarck could really grasp the fact that this was perhaps the last time, he would see and feel his parents, Peacekeepers had escorted them outside. When the door closed behind them, he felt despair and tears well up in him. Taking deep breaths, he forced both emotions down. They would not help him at all. Weepy seventeen year olds rarely garnered sympathy, sponsors or valuable allies. It might work with pretty girls, but not with him.

Speaking of allies… Should he try to find allies or should he try to make his way alone? Allies might help, but in the end only one could win. So eventually alliances had to break up, perhaps even turn against each other. Or you got too close to your allies and when someone else took them out you were emotionally vulnerable. But without allies, who knew how far he would make it? Also, allies might help keep the loneliness and paranoia stemming from isolation at bay.

Before he could consider this matter further, the door opened again and revealed a small girl of eleven years, though lack of filling meals gave her the appearance of one at least two years younger.

"Bonnie!" Maarck called out delighted. He had not expected the rather shy girl to gather the courage and face the Peacekeepers in order to visit him. Also, even though the Peacekeepers per statute had to be impartial to all citizens of the district they were stationed at they rarely were and the children of the Community Homes were far more likely to be considered guilty of something or other than other kids, so the orphans and other wards of the government preferred to give the Peacekeepers a wide berth.

"I… why…" With a startled sob, she lunged herself at the young man, hugging him fiercely. "Nothing will ever be good again. Not with you not being here." She cried.

"Hush, Bonnie. Things may seem rough, but you will make it and will be all the tougher for it", Maarck tried to console her.

It had been two years ago that this unlikely friendship had formed. He still remembered the day he had rescued the cornered girl vividly. Some of the school bullies had picked her as their victim of the day and were taunting her with cruel words. Had they kept it at words, Maarck might not have interfered, but when the leader said 'Let the dirt girl eat dirt' he had had enough. Dirt children, this phrase was derogatively used to describe the children of the Community Homes, since the only jobs these kids usually were offered during their upper school years were those which involved a lot of dirt: mucking out stables or shovelling the dried manure into the railway wagons to be transported to District 5 where it would be used for biomass energy. It was honest work, if not well-paying, and some of the older Community Home kids even used this word proudly. But to suggest to feed an innocent girl with muck went too far. Maarck had interfered, had told them to stop, and since he had been accompanied with already broad-muscled Timor, his words had been enough. The bullies had preferred to seek other, less protected prey. For days after that, Bonnie had followed her new hero like a love-sick puppy. At first Maarck had been somewhat embarrassed by this, but since she was always interested in helping him, even with his work at the snail-farm, he soon discovered that she was quick-witted and really understood what he was talking about, when he told her about his soil experiments. During the past year she had rather regularly helped him.

This gave him an idea. Gently removing Bonnie from his body, he stood up and said to her: "Wait a moment." He walked to the door and asked the Peacekeeper if it was acceptable for him to get paper and a pencil to write a letter. The Peacekeeper pondered this request for a moment and eventually said gruffly: "If you don't mind that I read it… Can't have you send a secret message to the rebels."

Maarck grinned weakly. "No rebels. Just a letter to my parents to suggest something absolutely legal. I have no problems with you reading it."

The Peacekeeper quickly procured the asked-for items.

"Okay, we have to hurry. Bonnie, once I have finished this letter, I want you to bring it to my parents. Right away, do you understand? It is really important."

"But Maarck, you know that we have to be back in the Community Home right after you leave for the station", Bonnie said in a little voice.

"I know. But it's equally important that my mother sees you dressed in your best. This dress is really pretty. Yes, I know, it was handed down to you and has been most likely mended several times. But it's still better than your school clothes or your work clothes."

"Why is my appearance so important?"

"Because I am going to ask my parents to adopt you. With me being away, they will need someone to eventually take over the farm. You might not be their child by blood, but you have all the talent it needs for snail farming." Seeing that she was close to tears at the hint that he might not return from the games, he hastily added: "And should I come back as victor, well, then we'll have enough money anyway to keep you and dress you like a princess and not worry about snail size and calcium levels in soil and such."

"Do you really think, your parents would adopt me?" It was obvious that Bonnie tried very hard not to get her hopes up too high in case it all came to nothing. It was every orphan's dream to find a real family, but it rarely happened.

"With this letter, yes, I think they would. But where you have to show my father that you can work well with the snails, you have to show my mother that you can also be a pretty, well-behaved girl. Mum has this notion that even a girl who works for her living, should be able to look like a lady."

The Peacekeeper had obviously listened in to their conversation, because he only skimmed the letter before handing it back to Bonnie, who thanked him with a shy smile and then scurried away. In her hurry, she forgot the handkerchief with dirt she had with her to give Maarck as token. But it didn't matter. Bonnie's hope was a far greater token… Maarck really hoped that his parents would follow his suggestion, though he might never know. Well, he had done his best here.

* * *

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"No luck for us, my dear audience", Caesar Flickerman said as the camera signal told him that it was time to do the bridge to the next part of the program: commercials. "Neither of the tributes is related to cow farming. The boy, I'm pretty sure the gourmets among you have already recognized. He is indeed from the Wijngaard-family who sends us the delicious escargot you can enjoy in our best restaurants here at the Capitol. As for the girl, while I confess that I did not recognize her name, our lovely crew here were quick in looking her family up in the records and found that they work with sheep. And lamb chops are equally delicious, aren't they? Or stew? If not for the fact that I just have had lunch, I would ask the cook right away to prepare me some." Eyes, mien, gestures, all showed the audience exactly how heavenly the food was Ceasar was envisioning.

"With so many options for food, why don't you plan to eat out tonight? Our lovely restaurants await you."

With this the directors switched to the commercial block with the restaurants, which had been specifically compiled with the Hunger Games season in mind.

Caesar took another sip from his glass of water. He himself would not have time to eat out tonight. He would be too busy analyzing the Reapings and the tributes. But that was perhaps all the better for him. During Hunger Games season, restaurants tended to raise the prices, knowing that more people than usual would like to buy themselves a treat in form of an expensive dinner as part of the overall season and would not care much about the price. And while Caesar was willing to pay good money for quality, quantity and overall taste, he did not want to pay for a happenstance in the calendar. But that was life in the Capitol… Every industry had their special holiday or season where the commercials and propaganda told them to spend their money on.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 4 - Reaping District 9

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 4: Reaping – Mentality, mentality (District 9)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"Welcome back!" The commercials were done and it was time to continue with the Reaping broadcast. "We have seen three districts already, nine more are to come. And nine is actually the number of the district we'll be now welcoming. Golden fields of grain swaying softly in the wind, this district is almost as lovely as District Eleven. The ceremony has already started, but we are well in time to catch the greater part of the rendition of the History of Panem."

Caesar sighed inwardly. It would be his (and the audience's) fourth rendition of the History of Panem they had to watch. The same words, over and over again… Yes, it was a history to be proud of, the history of a nation rising from the chaos of the cataclysm to new heights, with a new peaceful order. An order which even survived the rebellion which ended sixty-eight years ago, thereby proving that it was a strong, a good order. Caesar understood that like the districts, the people of the Capitol had to be reminded to be grateful for the privileges granted to them. They had to understand that the government was doing its best to look out for them and that it was doing a good job. It was to remind people at the Capitol that they truly had no reason to be dissatisfied, something people were inclined to be, even with a life of ease and plenty. But to have to listen to it four times the same day? That was really overdoing the idea of driving a point home. Plus, as Caesar thought, it was a waste of potential. By rephrasing the text of the History of Panem in such a way that the politically important points were given in the end, the majority of the time it took to read out the History in the respective district could be used for other short pro-government and pro-Panem documentaries. And since watching the Reaping broadcast was mandatory for the citizens of the Capitol, more points could be driven home in one day than just the 'be grateful, not dissatisfied' message. But as Caesar was only the anchorman and not the program director, he kept his thoughts to himself. Besides – voicing one's thoughts could be quite dangerous in the Capitol. The government, headed by President Snow, tended to be rather paranoid and paranoid people tended to lock you away first and ask questions later – if not worse. So any Capitolite learned at an early age to carefully watch their words and actions to avoid seeming the least rebellious. But, well, everything had a price, and this was theirs to pay for their life of ease and privilege.

* * *

 _District 9 – Kersia McKenna, 13 years_

 _It was a calm and pleasant evening in the late summer. The river ran lazily in its wide bed, the water reduced by the sun to a level which exposed a series of flat stepping stones. Compared to the tame concrete bridge which spanned the river, the stones were far more appealing to any child under sixteen, so the sight of a young girl of about ten or eleven years as she jumped from one stone to the next to reach the other bank did not garner any attention. Grinning in anticipation of the final jump, she took a deep breath. But just as she was about to launch herself in the direction of the riverbank, an explosion shattered the serene idyll of the evening. A wall of searing hot air slammed into the girl, flinging her back into the river. She tried to scream, but the scorching air killed all sound._

Kersia woke up with a start. Her heart raced and she had trouble breathing. It took her a few seconds to recognize her surroundings, that it had all been just a dream, that she was not back in the river, floating in a state of semi-consciousness till somebody eventually found her.

It was a recurring nightmare, stemming from the real explosion which had occurred a good two years ago. But time did not dim the pictures, the noise or the heat. Every time it felt like the first time. The only consolation – and it was a poor one at this – was that like with the real explosion, the nightmare killed all sound and she did not wake up her whole family with her screams. It certainly would not have helped her relationship with her mother had Kersia been prone to screams in her recurring nightmares.

Kersia sighed at the thought of her mother. So much had been changed by that dreadful explosion. Her father had been killed as had been ten other workers at the mill. Several others had received severe burns. A flour dust explosion the official report stated. Not that knowing the correct phrase helped the families in the least. Mr. McKenna, as one of the operation managers of the mill, had been the sole provider for his family. In one second the family had gone from living comfortably to facing poverty. Yes, the government provided for them for a three months period of grieving, but it was not enough. It rarely ever was, as it usually did not take the family's situation into account such as small children who made it well-nigh impossible for the surviving parent to get a full-time and well-paying job. This had been the case with her mother… It had only been the week before the explosion that she had given birth to twins and now she was a widow with five children of which the eldest was barely alive. While the river had protected Kersia's body from outside burns, the hot air she had breathed in had unfortunately scorched her lungs to such an extent that without medical attention she would die. And even with medical attention her lungs might remain weak.

Kersia knew that it was her age, which had her mother decide to pay for the apothecary. Her mother was neither cruel nor uncaring, but one had to be realistic in a situation such as this. An apothecary, while cheaper than a real doctor, was still very expensive and if the family did not gain anything by nursing Kersia back to life it would be better for all to let her just go than waste the resources. This was life, and life was not always fair. But as it was, Kersia was just four months short of her twelfth birthday, the day she would become eligible for tesserae. And while tesserae had never been of importance before, it now became a necessity for the family's survival.

As such Kersia did not really hold this calculation against her mother. But while the girl had survived, it seemed as if her mother's love for her had died. It was as if she only tolerated Kersia's presence because of the tesserae and it was this Kersia did not understand and actually held against her mother to a certain extent. It was not the daughter's fault that Kersia was too weak to help in the house or garden other than have the twins sit on her lap, but now that they were active toddlers, she could not even help there any longer. Neither could she go to school nor were there many jobs in the district she could do at home to earn money. Those jobs usually were taken immediately by the more skilled mothers. Yet her mother always looked at her as if it was her daughter's fault. All Kersia could do was preserve her strength for the fourth of every month when she would go and collect the next ration of grain and oil as the regulations required her to come and collect them in person. At home, she more and more strived to be as unobtrusive as possible so as not to give her mother a reason to be angry with her. But while she tried to be the best daughter she could be given the circumstances, it seemed as if her mother loathed her more with each passing day. Her voice got sharper, her gestures more abrupt. Kersia often wondered if this was perhaps because her mother felt guilty of what had happened to her oldest daughter. After all it had been she who had sent Kersia to the mill to fetch her father for dinner. But in this case it was misplaced guilt. With the newborn twins and herself recovering from giving birth, it had been the reasonable thing for the mother to send her eldest daughter on that errand. At the same time Kersia wondered if her mother was not perhaps also angry with her daughter for disobeying her and taking the stones instead of the bridge. Even though this disobedience had saved Kersia's life and had ultimately given her family the tesserae.

As she lay there in bed, listening to the breathing of her younger brother Baro and her sister Meri – the twins were sharing the other bedroom with their mother – she smiled when she remembered what day it was: Reaping Day. And while this day to others was the most dreaded day of the year, to Kersia it meant the one day her mother was forced to deal with her fear of having her daughter taken forcibly from her. The day which always reminded her that no matter how harsh her words, her mother still cared for her deep down. And it was this knowledge with would give her the strength to make it through the day.

The McKenna family was early as they made their way to the square, but Kersia would need time to sit down and recover before being forced to stand among her peers during the ceremony. Most other district citizens however, who had not to catch a bus to take them to the central square at a certain time, would be still out in the fields. Holiday or not, District 9, Panem's grain district, lived by the weather more than by the calendar. And a day such as this, pleasantly warm and sunny, meant that the grain was dead dry on the fields, perfect conditions for the harvester machines. The next day might bring rain again, so as long as everyone was at the ceremony in time, the government accepted that while Reaping Day might be a holiday with no regular work for other districts, this rule simply could not apply to District 9.

As Kersia signed in for the Reaping, Baro asked her in a whisper: "Are you okay?"

Kersia nodded. "I… will be fine."

"Are you sure?" Her brother was obviously worried and reluctant to leave her alone, without support, should her legs fail her.

"Yes… Go to mum… She'll… need you."

Her brother accepted it, but hugged his older sister hard.

"Don't…" she chided him. "What will… the people think?... Can't… have them… think me weak… or scared."

He grinned apologetically, yet let go off her with a loud "May the odds be ever in your favour."

Kersia smiled at his attempt to cover up his anxiety. He would be doing fine.

Slowly the square filled with the other children of the district and their families. As more and more girls filed into their respective roped off areas, one by one gave an almost imperceptible nod in Kersia's direction, a gesture Kersia returned. But on Reaping Day they all felt a little closer to each other. So being polite to a weak girl was nothing too extraordinary.

Finally the ceremony began and after the History of Panem and the presentation of the past victors and current escort, the latter walked to the glass bowl with the girls' names. The overdone female, who went by the name of Mimi Meemee, made a big show of stirring through the slips of paper with her long, manicured fingers before retrieving one piece of paper. It was all silent in the square and Kersia could only think of one thing: Please, not me!

"Hannah Ashford!"

A wave of relief flooded through Kersia at this name.

A slender girl with auburn hair extracted herself from among the eighteen year olds. With calm steps she mounted the stairs and turned to face the audience. She locked eyes with Kersia, a tiny spark of fear in them, but Kersia just nodded.

"Any volunteers?" Mimi trilled.

Kersia took a deep breath. "I volunteer", she called out as loud as she could.

The sea of girls easily parted for her amidst some astonished murmurs from the adults as she made her way to the front. A thirteen year old volunteer? From far away she could hear her mother's incredulous screams, but she could not turn around. If she did, she might waver in her decision. But she could not back down from her promise, from her bargain. Not now. Because Kersia had traded with her district: Her life in return for support for her family till Baro was eligible for tesserae.

* * *

 _District 9 – Haden Steinmetz, 16 years_

When Haden woke up that morning he was greeted by the smell of fresh toast with honey. He closed his eyes again and allowed himself to focus only on this wonderful smell. Special breakfast! He knew it occurred only two times a year. One was his birthday and Haden was pretty sure that today was not his birthday. His face fell a bit at the thought of the other day. That was the day he had to wear those itchy trousers and the white shirt and stand in the square for way too long. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it was his birthday after all. And the only way to find out was to get down and have breakfast and then see if the dreaded clothes were laid out for him.

"Good morning, son!" His father greeted him cheerfully. However, the lack of the 'Happy Birthday' was the first indication to Haden that it would be the other day. Still, it was toast and honey. Real honey, his father said, all the way from where District 10 bordered District 11. Haden knew that there were twelve districts in Panem and he was proud that he could name the main industry for all of them.

"Good morning, dad!" As he sat down at the kitchen table, Haden could espy some clothes on his dad's bed in the adjoining room. They looked suspiciously like the 'other day' clothes. "Dad?" he asked miserably. "Do I really have to wear them today?"

"Yes son." The older man sighed. "Today is Reaping Day. So you and I have to dress up nicely and go to the square, where all the others will be."

"I don't like it", his son simply stated. "Can't we stay away? We could go to work. You know, we do important work. What if we are not there? The rats will do what they want in the grain storages!" Haden pleaded.

His father smiled fondly at his son's innocent attempts at presenting reasonable arguments. Even if other people called his son an idiot, he could see the intelligence in his son trying to break free. It was not his son's fault that the alcohol his mother had imbibed during her pregnancy had locked most of that intelligence behind an almost impenetrable wall. Foetal alcohol syndrome was the official diagnosis and Mr. Steinmetz had no difficulty believing it. After all, he had come home often enough to find his wife dead-drunk. Of course he had tried to reason with her, but to no avail. When the midwife had suggested that she put the poor babe out of its misery and tell the officials that the child had been stillborn, he had taken one look at his son, who in that moment had opened his small eyes, and had known that he could not do it.

He had kept the child, but not the mother. And though it had been difficult, he had managed. It had been the father's love and care which had allowed the boy to advance now to the mental level of a five year old, but the father had done even more for him. He had trained his boy for a useful occupation. He had taught him how to catch and kill rats. In a district such as District 9 a skilled rat-catcher would never lack work. A few more years of experience and Haden, with a mind unburdened by any other care but the rats, would be extraordinary in his job. Good enough that his father would not worry for his future. At that point it would be in any employer's interest to see Haden being taken good care of in all matters of daily life his boy could not manage alone. Haden would pay them back threefold with rats.

"How about we play a game after breakfast?" Mr. Steinmetz suggested. "We don't have to go to the square right away."

"And I don't have to put on those clothes till we leave?"

The father nodded and the boy's face brightened at the prospect. "Are you up for 'I spy with my little eye'?" Like most games Mr. Steinmetz played with Haden this one taught his son awareness of his surroundings and kept slowly pushing that reluctant mind of the boy. They had used this game to teach him where rats would hide, and now they used it to teach Haden household chores so that he became aware of them by himself and not just by mimicking his father.

Eventually putting on the good clothes could no longer be put off. To show his son that he was not the only one feeling uncomfortable, his father showed Haden the tie he himself was going to wear. After giving his son a short glimpse of how it felt by putting it around Haden's neck, he made a big fuss about putting it around his own neck. His son's giggling was worth the discomfort and now he also had a good argument to keep Haden from complaining further about the clothes.

Although Haden got distracted pretty easily and quite often on their way to the square, they had left their home early enough to make it with more than a quarter of an hour to spare. His father saw him signed in and then told Haden which pen to enter.

"See you later, son. See you for the feast", his father said and left Haden standing alone among the other sixteen year olds. It hurt the father a bit to see the other boys ignoring Haden so obviously, but he was glad that they were not harassing him. At thirteen and fourteen it had always taken the threat of the Peacekeepers to make them behave. At least they had outgrown that stage. Or so he thought…

The thought of the feast had brightened Haden's mood considerably. He loved it when his father cooked special meals and maybe a feast for dinner was even worth wearing those clothes. He closed his eyes and let a grin spread over his innocent face.

"Hey, what is this loony grinning about?" some of the boys near him remarked. "Hey, rat-brain! Stop disgracing us by your stupid grin. This is Reaping Day! But you don't understand, do you? Why don't we make you understand and give you a taste of the games?"

Before either Mr. Steinmetz could sprint back or one of the Peacekeepers interfere, a girl called out from a neighbouring section: "What a man you are, Ko! Picking on someone like Haden. Takes a lot of skill, guts and intelligence… And you call him an idiot? Seems to me like you are the bigger idiot!"

The other girls had stepped back a bit, revealing a stunning beauty with long blond hair, just the colour of ripe wheat. By the way the thus addressed Ko blushed, it was obvious that he fancied the girl. Still he made an effort to defend his actions. "But he shouldn't grin like this on Reaping Day. Don't you see it, Lyka? We are standing here, waiting for one of us being sentenced to death and he just grins like an imbecile."

"So what if he found a positive thought to carry him through the ceremony?" came the heated reply. "I say: Good for him! I wish I had such a positive thought."

"I was thinking about the lovely dinner dad will cook later", Haden volunteered; ready to share his thought with the nice girl.

The other boy obviously did not like Haden attempting to participate in their conversation, but he had the sense to not say a word about it.

The girl just gave Haden a small smile. "A good thought." Then she turned away, seeing that the ceremony was about to begin.

The fact that the nice girl thought it was a good thought had Haden grin even wider. All through the History of Panem. All through the greetings to the past victors and the present escort. All through the girls' Reaping. All through the murmurs as a little girl volunteered. All through the time it took the escort to walk over to the boys' bowl and select a piece of paper. And then his grin died.

"Haden Steinmetz!"

Had this strange lady just called his name? Haden was suddenly scared.

"Haden Steinmetz! Where are you? Come up dearie!" she cooed.

One of the boys shoved Haden not so gently out into the path leading up to the stage. This was wrong. This was not how the other day was supposed to go. He was supposed to stand and wait till a boy went up to the stage and then he would return to his dad and his special dinner. Going up to the stage was all wrong. But suddenly there were two Peacekeepers behind him, urging him on and Haden had no other alternative but mount the stairs to the stage.

* * *

 _District 9 – Kersia McKenna, 13Y_

"What have you done, you ungrateful child?" Her mother stormed up to Kersia and lifted a hand as if to slap her across the face. But Baro was quicker. He grabbed his mother's arm.

"No, mum! No!"

"Mum!" Kersia said quietly. "Everything will… be fine… You'll see."

"How dare you tell me that everything will be fine? Huh? You know that we rely on the tesserae! And now? Look at you! Think you can win and have the Capitol fix your lungs? Think again!" She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and shook her hard.

Kersia tried not to flinch, but it hurt. Both her mother's words and actions. But she had known in advance what the reaction would be like. She had had months to mentally prepare for that. Though it pained her to know that she could not tell her mother the real reasons for her volunteering. Her mother would have gone into denial had Kersia attempted to tell her that her lungs were getting weaker. But the girl could feel it. Every time she went to the depot to get the tesserae rations. She knew that she would not make it through another winter where the northern cold swept over the district, seeping into every house, into the very bones of the district's citizens. And what was to become of her family then? Yes, it would mean one mouth less to feed. But it would also mean the loss of tesserae and it would be another two years before Baro was old enough. So she had planned ahead. She had realized that she had one thing she could trade: Her life. Giving her life for that of another girl would surely be worth the support for her family she needed.

Kersia had not been sure if such a trade was allowed, so she had acted secretly, with Baro as her only confidante inside her family, since she needed someone to inform others in silence of the offer and tell them to meet her on her tesserae day. The last thing she wanted was for her family or the family helping them to get into trouble. Of course there had still been the risk that her name was drawn and all deals were null and void, but that risk had always loomed over her and her family. She therefore considered her deals with the families of the district as merely tipping the odds in favour of her family.

And even now she didn't want to jinx things by telling her mother at least the benefits of her volunteering.

As violence against a tribute was not allowed inside the Justice Building – unless, of course, the tribute was trying to flee and the Peacekeepers were forced to use violence to catch and subdue the tribute – her mother's actions swiftly brought a Peacekeeper into the room to remove Mrs. McKenna.

Not wanting to get her mother into further trouble, Kersia quickly hugged all her siblings and then shooed them out. As he reached the door, Baro turned around again and quickly ran up to Kersia. "Here! As token!" He pressed something hard and round into her hand before following his siblings outside.

As Kersia opened her hand, she saw a small red bouncy ball. She smiled while at the same time a tear rolled down her cheek. It was the last gift Baro had received from their father. And now he had given it to Kersia…

The door opened again to reveal Hannah Ashford, who was accompanied by a young man. She hugged the little girl tightly. "Thank you", she said. "Thank you. You don't know what it means that you…" '…kept your promise' hung unsaid in the air, but to any eavesdropper it would have sounded like an unsaid 'volunteered'.

"I promised." Kersia whispered, her eyes fierce.

"I know." Hannah's voice had dropped to a whisper as well. "And I – we – will keep my promise. Because without you, Josh and I would not be together now, free to marry… We will do right by your family."

Kersia nodded. Relief filled her heart. All would be well. Now she could focus on the next part: Convincing her mentors to spend all potential sponsor money on Haden and after that convincing the Capitol that she was doing it out of childish impatience to see more of the world and hopefully get her lungs fixed.

* * *

 _District 9 – Haden Steinmetz, 16Y_

Haden was confused. First he had had to come up to the stage and now he was in this huge grey building. He was scared. He wanted his father.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the door opened and Mr. Steinmetz came in. He hugged his son tightly.

"Dad? What's going on? Why are we here? Shouldn't we be at home now?"

His father looked close to tears as he sat down on the sofa with Haden.

"Son, Haden, look at me." The father waited for the son to follow the order. "And now listen closely. You are going on an adventure."

At the excited face of the boy, his father made a gesture with his hand to caution him. "Like any real adventure, this one will be really, really dangerous. Not at first, no. At first you will ride in a beautiful train and you will be given nice and comfortable clothes to wear. And there will be a parade, where all of Panem can see this year's adventurers."

"All of Panem? Even you?"

"Yes, even me. Though I am not allowed to accompany you on this adventure, I will watch you on the TV. Because, as you know, all good adventures get shown on TV. So I can see you even if you can't see me."

Haden nodded slowly. This was not as good as his dad accompanying him, but it was better than being completely without him.

"Then, after the parade, you get to train with the other adventurers. Some of them will not be nice, others will ignore you, but you don't have to mind them at all. If someone offers to be your friend, you can accept it if you think they are nice. Because the adventure will be a bit easier if you have friends. But you will not accept someone for friend if they are a Career."

"A Career? How do I know if he is a Career?" Haden wanted to know.

"That is simple. You know your numbers. Careers have the numbers 1, 2 and 4. No matter what they tell you, the kids with these numbers are never your friends."

Haden thought about it, his brow furrowed. "Shouldn't 3 also be a Career?"

Mr. Steinmetz gave his son a small smile. Many people had wondered why District 3 had not tried to become a Career district as well, after District 4 had proven that one did not have to be exactly the Capitol's pet providing them with luxury items or Peacekeepers. Most thought that the people in District 3 were simply too busy tinkering with technology to train their children for the games. "I think when District Three saw how much like rats the Careers became, they decided that they wanted to stay nice and not become Careers themselves. For indeed, Careers are very much like rats. They go for all the nice food and can be really bad."

"So…" Haden obviously struggled with the concept that other adventurers could be rats. His father decided to try and help him with this some more. It might not be right to tell him things like he did now, but it was the best chance he had to see his son make it through the following weeks. "So they may look like normal kids, but in fact they are rats who wear costumes to look like kids. And you know what we do with rats."

"We kill them", Haden said matter-of-factly.

"That is right." The father nodded, inwardly shuddering at the thought of his son having to become a murderer. The only solace was that Haden would most likely not realize this. His mind was too young to grasp the full impact of these actions. "And to remind you of this, keep this with you all the time." He handed his son a handkerchief rat he had fashioned during the recital of the Treaty of Treason.

* * *

 _Capitol – Gamemaker Flavius Cortez_

As District 9's Reaping was shown on the screen, Gamemaker Flavius Cortez and medical advisor among the gamemakers did not know whether to curse or just sigh with resignation. Sometimes the Reapings were just unpredictable.

They had had tributes with mental disorder before, but they were never easy to handle. They almost always had trouble with the rapidly changing scenery from district to Capitol to arena and often freaked out about minor things at the most inconvenient moment. The choice method usually was to give these tributes a mild – or heavy, depending on the situation – sedative. In this however those responsible for the games were walking a fine line between discrimination and simply keeping things under control. Contrary to the popular belief, there were laws, rules and guidelines for the games, and while of course the President might change any of these at whim, he usually did not. It was all a matter of political diplomacy. If the President could claim – and prove by law – that the games offered the same chances to all tributes, the districts had no reason to complain about favouritism. Instead the President could place the ball back into their own field, telling the districts that the districts whose tributes stood better chances in the games had simply worked towards it. That all districts could achieve the same; that they just had to work for it. Also, by not interfering in form of changing laws, the President could simply blame someone else and appear as the gracious and benevolent father of the nation, protector of justice, should something go wrong. No matter whether the gamemakers or any other responsible person had acted with the President's consent or not.

So by sedating a tribute they were basically reducing this tribute's chances and it could be seen as an act of discrimination against the tribute and, taking things a step further, against the tribute's district. So in these cases they had to make sure that they were acting within the limits of a law which ranked above the laws for the Hunger Games, such as maintaining the peace and order of the state. Of course it was borderline to consider for example a tribute, who feared horses and therefore refused to get into the chariot for the parade, as a threat to the general peace and order of the state. But on the other hand it would be an act of discrimination to exclude a tribute from the parade simply because he feared horses and thereby rob him of his chance to be seen by the audience and win sponsors.

The situation with the girl was the reverse. It was obvious by her laboured breathing that she needed medical attention, but they could not do too much, as any significant improvement of her state of health would be considered undue favouritism. The tributes as such were entitled to free medical treatment during their time in the Capitol, whereas Capitolites either had to have a health insurance or pay for themselves. But this free medical treatment came with the downside of a strict guideline against the waste of medical resources. And with twenty-three of the tributes destined to die in the arena it would be a waste of resources to heal them of any major ailment obtained before the Reaping. Doing it despite the guidelines would then be considered as favouritism and heads had rolled for less in the Capitol. At the same time, physically impaired tributes evoked pity and thus won sponsors, so allowing them to keep their impairment could also be construed as favouritism. Best they could do was lessen the impact of the impairment on the tribute's overall abilities to perform in the training and the games and thereby keep pity well regulated.

Given that the girl had volunteered, Flavius was not sure whether she was suicidal or a naïve dreamer hoping for the Capitol to cure her. Even if their doctors fixed her lungs, she had to know that at thirteen she had nearly no chance of winning the games. Finnick Odair, youngest victor ever at fourteen, had been a completely different case. Already well-built for a teenager this young he had further been trained most of his life for the games and he had known how to appeal to the audience for useful sponsor gifts. So this girl was everything Finnick was not. Still, they had to do something about her.

Grabbing his cell phone he dialled the number of the hospital which was affiliated with the Hunger Games industry.

"Hersman."

"Cortez here. Hello doctor. I suppose you have seen the latest Reaping?"

"Who has not?" The doctor asked with a patient smile which was a trademark for most medical professionals.

"Any ideas?"

"I assume you don't mean the regular kit of sedatives one of the nurses is currently assembling for the boy tribute?"

"Would I call you for such a trivial matter?" Flavius countered. He knew the doctor well enough to remain patient with this banter even though as gamemaker he would have preferred to return his attention to the broadcast as soon as possible.

"The girl, then. Kersia McKenna actually has already a medical file here at the Capitol, though an unofficial one."

Flavius raised an eyebrow. "An official accident?" This was usually the only reason why district citizens had an unofficial medical file at the Capitol.

"Explosion at a mill a few years ago. The girl was in the vicinity. Her lungs got damaged. My guess is that there is a lot of scarred or still raw tissue which never got the chance to heal properly which results in the laboured breathing. Nothing we couldn't heal, though it's not a trivial thing. Would take several sessions…"

"Anything we can do to prevent a pity-storm?"

"We could try to soothe the tissue to make breathing easier for her." Dr. Hersman knew the games well enough to know what he could offer and what not. "Perhaps an inhaler with an aerosol for the days at the Capitol and a higher dosed syrup for the first day of the arena. This way the girl will at least have a chance to run and escape the bloodbath, which the audience surely will like and consider a generous gesture."

Flavius pondered this for a moment. "Sounds promising. Could she take a second dose of the syrup the next day? Is there a limit of doses for the syrup?"

"You think she will make it past the first day?"

"There are always tributes who manage to surprise you", the gamemaker stated. "If she could take another dose every day, we might add the syrup to the list of available sponsor gifts."

"I like the idea."

Flavius could hear the doctor's grin in his voice and he fully understood. The Capitol companies and institutes whose products were used as sponsor gifts usually got a small percentage for those gifts. And of course the overall amount for a special syrup as sponsor gift would be far more than that of a mundane gauze bandage. "Let me talk to Petra about the sponsor gift list, but the inhaler and the dose for the first day are accepted."

Luckily his colleague Petra Kissinger, who was responsible for the sponsor gifts, had listened in to his conversation. "I'll have to clear it with the President, but I'm pretty sure we'll get the okay. Most likely you can call the escort before the train leaves District Nine."

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 5 - Reaping District 8

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 5: Reaping – Special in more than one way (District 8)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"What a dramatic Reaping!" Caesar gushed as soon as the camera was on him. "Who could have foreseen that? Certainly not you, who like to bet on the Reapings, I bet." He just couldn't resist the pun. "Thirteen year old tribute, perhaps, but thirteen year old volunteer? I wonder what the odds for that one are. But enough of this. Time to turn our attention to District Eight. I know you fashionistas out there have been waiting for this district with baited breath. Be it cool silk, warm velvet, airy linen or colourful flexi-fabrics, they are all there. We may have the fashion designers here at the Capitol, but they would be nothing without the fabrics of District Eight. And likewise District Eight would be nothing without our Capitol's designs for which to make their fabrics. A perfect example of the harmonious symbiosis between Capitol and District on which this beautiful country's society is based."

Sometime Caesar was surprised how easy it was for him to tell such things in so cheerful a manner. Did people really believe it? Or did they just make others believe that they believed it? Any person with half a brain would know that without the fashion designers of the Capitol District 8 would simply allow their own creativity to come up with designs. And soon enough they'd have their own designers, who would send their own fashion to the Capitol. So, was the Capitol really needed in this symbiosis? Well, maybe not in regards of fashion, but Caesar knew that though Panem in general was largely unaware of this, the Capitol had its own specialised industry. And he did not mean politics. Politics were merely the tip of the iceberg of industry which truly ruled Panem. An industry which most likely had ruled any established country since the beginning of mankind: Administration. It was boon and bane at the same time. A deeply disliked necessity, which, depending on the person in charge of it – which ultimately was the President – could work for the good of a country or for its downfall. In any case, it kept the country together, through winter, spring and summer, and through the Hunger Games season and as such seemed to have earned its place in their lives.

"Speaking of symbiosis: While District Eight will have their rendition of the History of Panem, we will air the recorded scenes, which just happened a few moments ago in District Twelve. There the train in this minute is pulling out of the station. But of course you'll not have to miss a single picture of the District Eight's Reaping; we will be providing you with a nice split screen."

With this the large picture of District 8's square shrunk to a smaller one while a larger one showed the two tributes from District 12 shake hands, then march into the Justice Building, only to emerge seconds later – who cared for this airing that in reality there had been an hour between these pictures? – to be driven to the station where the last set of pictures was taken before they boarded the train.

Caesar was relieved that now the program was picking up pace and he was not subjected to yet another full recital of the History of Panem.

* * *

 _District 8 – Chalen Nimara, 15 years_

For the first time in weeks, the inkle weaving loom stood still. There was no rhythmic clatter of the shuttle and the frame, no soft hum as the slender girl tested the strength or twist or colour-composition of her work.

"What is the matter, Chalen, why is it so quiet?" an old woman asked from a rocking chair by the window.

The girl, by age and facial similarity obviously the grandchild of the woman, turned to her with a smile. "Nothing is the matter, grandma. It's just that I brought the last of this season's trimming tapes to the depot the day before yesterday and used yesterday to make a few simpler tapes of the left-over yarn to adorn some of your dresses. Right now I'm sewing it along the hemline of your favourite tunic."

"You will get into trouble for not giving back the left-over yarn," the grandmother chided with a smile.

"You know I won't. After all, you never got into trouble for doing the same," Chalen replied with obvious fondness in her voice. "The Capitol knows what it has in our work. They won't mind a bit of yarn, especially colours they won't use for the next three years at least. And it's not as if the trimming I made for you is in any way as elaborate as the ones I did for the fashion designers in the Capitol."

"I dare say not," the old woman said with a soft snort. "I remember well the time when those fashion designers thought they could learn the art of trimming tape weaving by sending some poor girl here for three weeks."

Chalen laughed. She could imagine how well such experiments had gone. To transplant a Capitol girl to District 8 would never go well. From what she had seen on TV about the Capitol it was a beautiful, airy, generously laid out city. District 8 was the same in that it also consisted of only the main city, but that was where the similarities ended. In stark contrast to the colourful fabrics and prefabricated clothes this district manufactured, the buildings were all in a drab concrete grey, darkened by weather and the chemicals of the dyes which hung in the air.

"Aside from the culture shock, how do they expect to learn in weeks what takes years to understand? It took you years to learn the technique not to mention the nuances." The grandmother continued.

"I also had the advantage that you were my grandmother and therefore more disposed to have patience with me," Chalen said gently.

The grandmother huffed. "There is also the little fact that as my granddaughter you had at least some talent inherited. The rest to you was merely a necessity since neither of us wanted to see you subjected to the rigid factory system. You had to become a specialist to retain at least some freedom."

Chalen reached out and pressed her grandmother's hand. Gestures counted more to them than words. "And you did an excellent job, despite your waning eyesight. Though this medical fact certainly helped to convince the Capitol not to press for my being apprenticed to the factories as the other children of this district." Indeed Chalen knew how lucky she was. Whereas her classmates hurried to the factories after school to spend hours bent over a sewing machine, repeating the same movements over and over again until their whole bodies were cramped, she went home to her grandmother. Their apartment, like that of most families in the district, was rather small, but the two females did not mind sharing a bedroom and leaving the second room as working room where the inkle weaving loom stood. Here she analyzed fabrics as to its yarn and colour-composition, compared it with the sketches of the intended clothing articles sent by the designers and set to working on matching trimmings. These always had to enhance the piece of clothing in a subtle and refined way, so as not to take away from the person who would wear this, but obvious enough to advertise the designer's work. It was too artistic to be used for mass production, nor did the designers want these special trimmings to be part of the mass produced textiles. These trimmings were intended for the everyday fashion of their haute couture line. Mass produced ribbon trimmings were for mass produced clothing articles. Consequently the Capitol didn't want too many people doing this handmade type of inkle weaving as it would take away from its value. But when the local doctor had pronounced Mrs. Nimara's eyesight irreparably waning, the Capitol had agreed to consider the granddaughter, who was living with her, as her apprentice.

The independent inkle weaving, at least the quality the Nimaras produced, paid better than the factory jobs, though it was stressful enough, especially in advance of the quarterly fashion changes. Spring, Hunger Games, winter and Victory Tour all brought forward their own collections which all required their own trimmings. The problem was that the trimmings could only be designed when the design for the clothes they were meant for was finished. It made no sense to waste time and resources on creating a trimming tape which could not be used because ultimately the costume or dress was done with a totally different fabric. So the weeks leading up to the Capitol's fashion events often meant that Chalen spent days and nights at the loom, not catching more than three hours sleep per night. But unlike her classmates she could catch up on her sleep once the work was done. Work in the factories however never ceased. And should the fashion houses require more of a certain trimming, it was never as urgent as it was during the high weeks.

"There, all done!" Chalen announced and shook out the tunic she had been working on. She then carried it over to her grandmother for her to examine the stitches and feel of the trim.

"The brown and golden trimming?" the older woman inquired. Her granddaughter had described all the trimming tapes she had had to work on for this Hunger Games fashion season.

"I think it is intended for some District Seven inspired clothing," Chalen told her.

The grandmother chuckled. "These Capitolites… They never have an inkling what a district really looks like. They always think our district rainbow bright and never care to add the grey of the buildings here."

"Perhaps it is for the better. Just imagine how depressive the fashion would be, were they really to put the concrete's colours to their designs. And it would be all depressiving for us to work on it. Not just for you and me, but think of all those poor wretches in the factories having to turn bales of drab grey into drab clothes. It's enough that our clothes slowly turn to grey as time makes the colours fade too fast since only cheap die is used for district clothing."

"Always the optimist," the grandmother smiled. She loved having her cheerful granddaughter around to keep the grey away from her thoughts.

"Yes. And this optimist now has to get dressed, as do you, because this optimist has to convince the odds once more to be in her favour. Time for us to get ready for the square." Chalen handed her grandmother the tunic which with the basic green really looked a bit like the forests of District 7.

A few minutes later, they set out in the direction of the square, which in District 8 was situated on the edge of the grand lake which in pre-cataclysm days had been known as Lake Superior.

Guiding her grandmother gently along the streets, Chalen greeted neighbours and classmates.

"What do you think, will She be there?" her grandmother asked suddenly.

Chalen turned slightly to ensure that her grandmother could catch her words. "Oh, She will be. She has to, after all. Everyone has to be present. Though I have no idea where She will be exactly." She, that was Chalen's mother, who had more or less dumped her daughter on Mrs. Nimara's doorstep eight years ago, never to contact them again. And Chalen doubted that this year would bring any change. "Be careful, next up are the rails. The bed is okay, but I wouldn't want you to tumble, grandma," Chalen changed the topic.

"So we are there already?" The grandmother knew the rails to be the last obstacle before they reached the square. At least in term of blind people's landmarks.

"Just a few more steps. I can already see the registration desk and the stage. And the lake behind it."

"Pah, lake… Cesspool is more like it." Indeed the lake on their side of it was a dirty, greyish brown murk with puddles of shimmering rainbows on the surface – oils and dyes poisoning the water and any living organism within. But that was also District 8.

"There is Mrs. Erfam. – Good day Mrs. Erfam," Chalen greeted the neighbour.

"Good day to you, too. Chalen, you had better hurry, it's almost four o'clock. Don't worry, I'll take care of your grandmother."

With this, Chalen bid her grandmother goodbye for now. And as she filed in among her year-mates, she allowed herself for the first time this day to worry what her odds truly were. While their family was not large, the irregular workload and the fact that her grandmother could not work any longer herself meant that she had taken out tesserae ever since she had been old enough for it, giving her some unwelcome extra slips in the bowl.

* * *

 _District 8 – Rodi Kozen, 16 years_

The pleasant dream of walking along the rails with a girl whose face was obscured – something which irritated him though he didn't mind it at the same time – was suddenly disturbed by a shaking of the earth. 'An explosion!' he thought, as usually such rumblings of the earth were the result of an explosion of one of the factories which manufactured the artificial oil and plastic based fabrics for everyday use. He tried to snatch the dream girl's hands to pull her to some protective cover, but instead she slipped away as the sirens of the Peacekeepers rushing to the site of the accident squealed: "Wake up! Wake up!"

This strange mix-up had Rodi shake of the remnants of the dream and wake up. Instead of an explosion there were just his two little brothers jumping on his bed, shouting for him to wake up.

"Argh! You monsters! I just had the most pleasant dream." And turning into a brotherly monster himself he tackled his brothers and began tickling them until they squealed with laughter.

This brought his mother to the room, carrying her youngest child, a lovely girl of almost three years, on her hips. "Ah, good, you are finally awake. It's almost noon. Be glad that I let you sleep this long."

Rodi stood up and gave his mother and sister a quick hug. "Thanks. You are the best mother." He grinned, which looked only half as charming as he intended due to the sleep-ruffled hair.

"Be glad that today is Reaping Day or I would have had to wake you way earlier for school. Really, Rodi, you shouldn't do those late night shifts."

Still clad in his pyjamas, Rodi padded to the kitchen where his light jacket hung on a hook. Sifting through one of the pockets he proudly produced a couple of bills which he then handed to his mother. "Just as we were finishing for the night, Mr. Meyer came and told us that there was another container of fibres and that should we unload it this night, he'd pay us double. I knew that I might have a chance to sleep a little longer today, so I decided to take up the opportunity. We can put half of it into the winter coat tin and use the other half to get us something nice for tonight's dinner. I was thinking about cake. We might as well taste some of the last sugar from our victor's share. Who knows which district will get lucky this year."

The younger kids cheered and the father laughed good-naturedly. "Well done, son," he said and even the mother grudgingly accepted her eldest boy's decision.

"Don't worry, mum, I will not take such shifts on school days," Rodi assured her.

His mother just smiled. She knew that her son was a good boy, responsible and kind, but like any young man he wanted to prove himself. He already pulled more than his weight, taking out tesserae, doing shifts at the station unloading wagons, and looking after his siblings. But he never complained and never seemed unhappy so she knew she had to let him do his own thing. She also couldn't deny that the hard labour was turning her son into a good looking young man with broad shoulders, so she wouldn't be surprised if before long he brought home a girl of his own. And like any mother she hoped that the girl would be worthy of him. Perhaps she would see something indicative today in the square. Just enough to tell her what type of girl her son might favour.

The thought of the square brought her back to the present and she hurried her son to the table to ensure that he had at least some lunch before they had to get ready for the Reaping.

With time to spare they were all dressed and ready to attend the yearly Reaping Ceremony.

"Up, up!" Melanie, who had at first insisted that she walk on her own, screamed after a few meters. Obviously the throng of people walking to the square scared the little girl, who could see nothing more than a forest of legs from her position.

Laughing, Rodi lifted her up onto his shoulders. "High enough, princess?" he asked with a grin as he grabbed the chubby legs to keep her from falling. Another few months and the last of the baby fat would be replaced by the nutritious reality of the district fare.

Melanie squealed with delight. Now she could see everything! "Yay!" she shouted, while her brothers looked at her with envy. At six and eight they usually considered themselves above such childish behaviour, but in the throbbing mass of human bodies they would have gladly traded some of their dignity for an elevated post such as their sister's.

Luckily the walk to the square was a short one, since the family lived close to the station.

Rodi handed back his sister to his parents and signed in. "See you later," he said with a cheerful wave and trotted off to the area where the other sixteen year old boys stood. A few girls gave him cat calls, but he just hurried on. While it was flattering that these girls apparently thought him attractive, he instinctively knew that his dream girl was not of the aggressive type. At least not in this way. She was caring, could stand her ground, but was not overly flirtatious like those hussies in the making. Unfortunately Rodi knew this kind of girl too well… girls who were not talented enough for the factory work, or who thought they could earn more money outside the factories, often tried their luck with prostitution. As the station where he worked was a central crossing point, which most of the districts working populace passed at least once a day, the street hookers usually loitered about the darker corners of the station, looking for customers. It was tentatively tolerated for various reasons, and Rodi accepted it as yet another facet of the district, but he was certainly not interested in tasting this kind of intimacy for sale. Still more often than not some desperate girl who had not had enough customers that evening, called out to the lads when they finished their shifts and it always made him feel uneasy as he hurried home, keeping his eyes focused ahead. The cat calls he received now were just too close to the calls of those prostitutes for his comfort. So instinctively he used now the same stance he did at night. He stared straight ahead to the stage where just then the screen went alive for the History of Panem.

He sighed with relief.

Then Woof and the highly pregnant Cecilia, who had won last year's hunger games, were presented to the audience, as was their escort, Quintilia Quintus, who this year wore a form-fitting costume with horribly clashing lime green and purple for colour. And then it was time for the real thing. With a last "May the odds be ever in your favour" Quintilia Quintus walked over to the girls' bowl. A slip of paper was withdrawn.

"Chalen Nimara!" her affected voice rang out and slowly a slim girl extracted herself from the fifteen year old section. Now and then she would cast worried glances to the audience and Rodi concluded that the worry was directed at her family, whoever they were. He did not know the girl, though he usually knew all the factory girls at least by sight as they hurried across the station.

Then it was the boys' turn. Silent prayers went up in multitudes, but even though Rodi was no exception to this, he knew that one boy's prayers would remain unanswered today. And volunteers were unheard of in their district…

"Rodi Kozen!"

Oh no! The boy whose prayer would remain unanswered today was he!

* * *

 _District 8 – Chalen Nimara, 15Y_

As Chalen was led into the Justice Building all she could hope for was that Mrs. Efram would bring her grandmother to her. She would hate it could she not say goodbye to her properly.

So much for being an optimist, she thought a little glumly. She certainly did not want to consider her being reaped as her death-sentence, but she was also too realistic about her actual chances in the arena. She was not really athletic and while she thought that maybe she would be able to turn her knowledge about yarn into crafting traps and snares, she was unsure if she had it in her to kill someone else. Could she take another person's life to come back to her grandmother? She certainly did not want to die… She knew she would try, she would fight, but would that be enough?

The door opened, but instead of revealing her grandmother, a middle-aged woman with a worn and haggard face entered. It took Chalen a few moments to realize that this woman was indeed her mother.

"Oh my baby!" the woman cried as she rushed towards Chalen to hug her, but Chalen swiftly evaded her, turned around and walked to the window. All those years her mother had been fine without acknowledging her, without staying in touch with her, and now that she was in all likelihood dead in a few weeks her mother suddenly came back to be all affectionate?

"Don't worry, baby, mommy is here!" Again the woman tried to hug Chalen.

The girl felt hot bile rise up her throat at these words. Sidestepping her mother, she turned slowly around and focused the woman with an icy glare. "Mrs. Coltrane, let me make one thing clear to you: You may have given birth to me, but you are not my mother. My mother died the moment she decided that a child did not fit into her new life and left me with my grandmother never to come back."

"You have to understand," her mother pleaded with her, "I had just gotten over your father's death and things with Mike were so new…"

"…that you felt a seven year old reminder of your first marriage would be more of a burden than a pleasure," Chalen cut her off. She still remembered the harsh words her mother had exchanged with her grandmother.

"At least you were consequent enough not to come back for Chalen once she was twelve and could have taken out tesserae for you and your new family," a sharp voice said from the door. It was her grandmother.

Mrs. Coltrane turned around and blanched visibly. Despite being blind, old Mrs. Nimara was still such a forceful presence that the younger woman instantly sought to flee. She had never really gotten along with her mother-in-law and it certainly had not helped when she had left Chalen with her.

"Have a good life, Mrs. Coltrane. And should I make it to the final eight, be sure that the reporters will not come to your doorstep. It would not do to disturb your new family's peace with a reminder of my existence." With this Chalen signalled the Peacekeeper at the door that he should escort her mother outside.

The grandmother slowly made her way to where she had heard her granddaughter speak. Stopping a few steps in front of her she said: "I am proud of you, Chalen, that you did not lose your temper."

Chalen closed the distance and hugged her grandmother. "While I am still angry with her for abandoning me, she is not worth losing my temper. Who knows if I had had such a happy time with her new family as I had with you. I certainly would not have learned so much about inkle weaving."

"That is all well… But if you are able to keep your temper in the presence of that woman, you'll also be able to keep your temper during training, no matter how much the Careers will try to bait you or beat down your morale, and you'll be able to keep your head in the arena."

Chalen sighed.

"Nah, nah, no pessimism. You are my little optimist. And I know you have several things to aid you in the arena. Temper is one thing. But you have also learnt to be observant since you had to describe everything to me. You'll see the arena with different eyes than those frightened rabbits of tributes. And now," the grandmother said resolutely, "let me give you your token."

With this she retrieved a pair of small scissors she always carried with her out of habit from the pockets of her skirt.

The glint of the metal alerted the Peacekeeper and he rushed inside. "No weapons!" he shouted and caught the old woman's arm.

"Pah, weapon! If I had wanted to harm my granddaughter I could have done so at home, why would I do so now?" she asked him. "I have lived too long not to know that in this case this Quintus-woman would just reap some other girl. No, all I wanted was to cut a lock of my hair to give my granddaughter as token. But you may stay and watch to make sure that Chalen remains unharmed." She yanked her arm free and grasped one of her grey strands of hair.

* * *

 _District 8 – Rodi Kozen, 16Y_

Rodi had barely time to take in the lush surroundings of the room he was told to wait, when the door opened and his family came in. His brothers instantly clung to him and his baby sister had tears in her eyes. At almost three she did not yet fully understand was the Reaping meant, but she understood enough to know that it was something bad. Something which made her parents and brothers sad, and so she cried as well.

"We shouldn't have let you take out so much tesserae," the mother berated herself.

"I would still have had five slips in the bowl, even if I had not had taken out a single tessera," Rodi tried to comfort her. "And we have seen that sometimes it takes as little as a single slip to be reaped. So I'd rather have the tesserae than be reaped without the benefit of the extra food," he reasoned.

"True words, son," the father said. He placed the still softly crying little girl on the sofa and went to hug Rodi. "I think I never told you how proud I am to call you son even though you are not of my blood."

Rodi felt tears welling up in his eyes. "You didn't have to, dad." He stressed the last word. "The fact alone that you always treated me like a full son of your own and not just a stepson told it to me every day." His own father had left them when Rodi had been five and by now he had only a few vague memories of his sire. There also would be no new memories, since his biological father had died when Rodi had been eight, though he had not learned the truth of his father's accident till he was fourteen and started working at the station. His sire was among the famous tales of why one should be careful while crossing the tracks at night. In a drunken state one stumbled too easily and then could be hit by a freight train. That was what had happened to his father. His mother had married again the year before his sire had died, but Mr. Kozen had never thought of Rodi other than as his son. He had even adopted him and given him his name.

Before they could become too emotional the mother stepped up and hugged her son tightly. "You are strong. Find an ally who you can trust, perhaps someone who knows about foodstuff and such, and you can make it far in the games. I know that. I believe in you."

His father meanwhile had whispered something to the baby on the sofa. Presently Melanie stood up and stumbled over to Rodi.

"Token!" she crowed and held out her chubby fist.

"What is it?" Rodi asked curiously as he crouched down and held out his hand. But apparently his sister was reluctant to part with it. "Will you not give it to me?"

She shook her head. "Promise you come back. It is pretty and I want it for my winter coat."

Rodi could not resist and hugged the little girl. "I wish I could promise it. All I can promise is that I'll do my very best to come back to you."

"Why not? Why not promise?" the girl wanted to know.

"You see, there will be twenty-four children and they all want to go back home. But the Capitol only allows one of them to return. This tribute will then be called victor. You remember Cecilia and all the food we got because of her? She was allowed to come back last year. She was the victor."

"And the other children?"

Tough question. Melanie was too young to really understand death and he didn't want to traumatize his sister by the truth of what would happen to the other children – that they were clobbered to death in one way or another. But then inspiration hit him. "They go to the land of dreams. You see, they can come back, but only in the dreams of people."

"So if you are not victor, you come back to me in my dreams?" his sister asked for assurance.

"Exactly." From his crouched position, Rodi could see the approval of both his parents at this explanation, though his father was currently restraining his eight year old son, who was obviously too old for such a cushioned explanation on the topic of death. But a short whispered conversation quieted the boy.

Meanwhile Melanie had finally let go of the precious token. As Rodi examined it he realized that it was indeed a very pretty button, large, round and shiny. But it was not an ordinary button, but one with six holes in it. One for each member of their family.

* * *

 _Capitol – Eva Bell_

A sketchpad on her lap, various pencils scattered about on the sofa table in front of her, Eva Bell listened more to the broadcast of the various districts' Reapings than watching them. Even in the fashion-addicted Capitol people rarely understood that after a fashion week was before a fashion week, that there was always the next collection to be designed and prepared. So even if the winter collection was just a minor one compared to the late Hunger Games fashion collection, she had to work on the sketches for the fashion label CC&G whose head-designer she was.

As she drew lines on the paper for jackets, skirts, ruffles, cloaks and everything that came to her mind, the districts and the tributes' names whizzed by till suddenly a familiar name arrested her attention.

"Chalen Nimara!" a woman announced on the screen. Whether it was the fact that this woman was wearing one of CC&G's most recent costumes or that Eva had just been contemplating some application for the first draft of a smart jacket, she instantly identified the tribute for who she was.

"Shit!" she cursed.

Chalen Nimara… For more than thirty years CC&G had been using the Nimara's trimming tapes for their collections, Chalen Nimara being the current inkle-weaver. Why, oh why had her name not been secretly withdrawn from the bowl? The whole industry would suffer should Chalen die in the games. Why, oh why had this stupid chit of an escort not recognized the name and instead said a different name? Mary Miller for example? Surely there was a Mary Miller in every district… and if not she could blame the ink on the slip having been smeared and gotten a new slip! But now it was too late.

Abandoning her sketchpad, Eva began pacing her living room. What was she to do? How could she keep her whole collection from collapsing? Not to mention the possibly several years' worth of collections to come, should Chalen die in the arena… An idea dawned upon her: She had to influence the games in such as way as to make Chalen win. But how could she influence the games short of kidnapping all gamemakers (and the President) and use the mutations to kill all other tributes?

Sponsor money!

If she somehow managed to get enough sponsor money to have her mentor buy Chalen whatever she needed in the arena, the girl and Eva's collection might stand a chance. But while Eva did make a comfortable income with her work as head-designer for CC&G, she knew that it was definitely not of the range in what people usually earned who sponsored tributes. No, she'd have to acquire some help to get enough sponsor money for Chalen.

Energetically she grabbed her phone, dialling the number of her boss.

"CC?"

"The Nimara girl?" the smoky voice asked.

Eva confirmed.

"Don't tell me you want the label to sponsor her?"

"Oh no," Eva hastened to assure her boss. CC&G had never before sponsored a tribute despite the house's affiliation with District 8. "At least not directly. But as you know the label would suffer should she die in the arena."

"So what is then your idea?"

"A sponsor sale. Starting tonight we could offer to donate a certain percentage of a certain type of clothing article sold from now till Chalen either wins or dies towards sponsoring her. To be sure, CC&G would forego some of the profit, but not as much as were we to sponsor the girl directly. It's more that the money would come from our customers. Perhaps we could also win the other labels to join this program," Eva explained. "AV for example also uses Nimara trimmings."

"Hm…" CC made contemplating noises over the phone. "So actually it would be a bit like a discount program to us, much as we use for clearance sale. You know what, Bell, the spring collection was to go on clearance sale tomorrow to empty the racks for the Hunger Games articles. We could keep the prices up and simply tell the customers that their discount rate instead would be donated to Chalen. Of course we'd have to let them know why we want them to sponsor the girl…"

"Like this jacket? Like how it makes you look good? The secret is the trimming. It turns the jacket from something mundane into something special. It makes you special. Don't let the Games steal this from you by letting Chalen Nimara, the talented tribute from District Eight who manufactured this delicate trimming, die. Sponsor Chalen Nimara today. Buy a CC&G article from the last season and instead of receiving a discount, we'll donate the amount to the Chalen Nimara Sponsor Fund." Eva declared with the faux voice of a commercial speaker.

"Sounds borderline rebellious, but as we are not speaking against the games per se but asking people to sponsor, we might get away with it. How about you work a bit more on the text while I try and get the heads of the other labels join our program?" With this CC hung up.

Eva breathed a sigh of relief. Not only had her troublesome boss understood her, but agreed to go along with the idea. If all went well, Chalen Nimara would be the best sponsored tribute aside from a Career, perhaps even surpassing the Careers.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 6 - Reaping District 7

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 6: Reaping – Neither prince nor pauper (District 7)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"Almost halftime, my friends, but only almost. We will now visit a district almost as idyllic as District Eleven. Think of lush green trees giving cool shelter in the summer and providing firewood in the winter. Where birds chirp in unison with the industrious sound of the many axes of District Seven's working crews. And indeed, my friends, there are many in this beautiful district who know not only how to use an axe to cut down a tree, but many a tribute from this district has shown us that they also know how to throw their tools in the arena." Indeed Caesar marvelled at the fact that almost without exception all tributes from District 7 so far had known how to handle axes. Axes and hatchets were therefore by now staple weapons same as swords, throwing knives and often maces in the initial display of plenty at the Cornucopia. Of course there still remained the little fact that the tributes first had to get their favoured weapon, but the skill of the tributes from District 7 when it came to axes and hatchets never failed to impress the Gamemakers. How Caesar would love to sit into the private training sessions just once. Ah, well, he could not have everything. He had the privilege of talking to the tributes face to face, something the Gamemakers could not do.

"But as always, we will now once more provide you with the split screen to show you the departure of the tributes from District Eleven."

* * *

 _District 7 – Coralee Lume, 17 years_

The house was not only filthy; it seemed to be held together by filth. Coralee shook her head disgustedly.

"I'm a little behind with the cleaning of my house and I will have some friends over for dinner after the ceremony… Would you perhaps come and help me out? Of course I'll pay you your regular rate," Mr. Jones from the parquet factory had asked Coralee a few days ago as she was getting ready for her usual duties as cleaning lady to the factory.

She snorted. A little behind was putting it mildly. Gosh, she even had had to dust the broom before she could use it! Of course she had accepted the job, seeing that any job which brought money could mean the difference in the orphanage between having to take out tesserae or not. Mrs. Ames, who managed the orphanage, was rather fair. Harsh, but fair. She had all the kids, as soon as they were old enough, get jobs, in the hopes that it would mean that none of them had to take out tesserae. As she put it: The life of the orphans and wards of Panem was already difficult enough, no need to make it more difficult by having them take out tesserae. Of course it also meant earning enough money to keep the younger kids fed and clothed as Panem's welfare system went only so far, relying heavily on tesserae. But under Mrs. Ames' management, they had been able to keep the tesserae at a minimum and then it were only the eldest at the orphanage, those who by age already had the most slips, who took the additional risk. So while it meant that often Coralee would work till her back ached, she was happy to know that with her seventeen years she had only the inescapable six and one additional slip in that dreaded glass bowl. The additional one had come the previous winter, which had been a harsh one with a whole working crew coming to death in the woods during a blizzard. And even though the lumber jacks were a close-knit community where many a child who had been orphaned by that blizzard found a new family, in the end there were still seven children left who had to be entrusted to the care of the orphanage. Since all the eighteen year olds had already taken out the maximum of tesserae to their name – the rule that one could only take out tesserae for oneself and family members, either by blood or by adoption, still applied for the orphans and wards of Panem – Mrs. Ames had been forced to appeal to the seventeen year olds. Not that Coralee regretted her decision to volunteer to take out one tessera. What was one slip after all? But she was determined to let this one slip hopefully be the only additional one she needed before she left the orphanage. So she quickly tied a scarf to her head to protect her hair from getting all dusty – she knew she wouldn't have the time to wash it later and still be in time for the Reaping Ceremony – and set to work.

Thankfully Mr. Jones' house was not overly large and being used to methodical cleaning, Coralee could soon see the progress as she cleaned room after room, always going from the ceiling to the floor, from back to front.

She was just mopping the kitchen floor, the kitchen being the last room she was to clean, when Mr. Jones came in. Being clad only in undershirt and boxer shorts, he obviously had been in the middle of changing for the ceremony, when he decided to check on her. Though why he had not finished first eluded Coralee as she quickly averted her eyes. After having seen the sad state of his house, he could have been Adonis himself and she could not have looked at him without disgust, much less wishing to see him in his underwear, as this raised the unbidden question in her mind, if his laundry was in the same state as his house. Added that Mr. Jones was not Adonis, but paunchy with receding hair, the view he presented was even less inviting.

"Ah, you are about done here," he said, stepping closer. "How about you give this chimney a sweep as well?" With this he thrust forward his hips.

Only then did Coralee notice the erection in his boxer shorts. As Mr. Jones made move to lower his boxers, she gulped and quickly said as firmly as she could: "Cleaning only! I am no prostitute!"

"Come, come, I know you want it. I'll even pay you a little extra!"

"I said no!" Resolutely gripping the mop, Coralee stood her ground. "But if that is all, I'd rather you give me my wage for the cleaning now. I'm done here."

"The hell you are!" Mr. Jones said, his face slowly becoming red with anger. "You are only done when I say you are done. And you are not done till I am satisfied, is that understood? No satisfaction for me, no money for you!" He stepped closer and raised his hand as if to grab Coralee.

Huge mistake! Because Coralee could do far more with a mop than just clean a floor. What had started as friendly scuffles with the other kids in the orphanage, had soon turned into a serious method of self-protection and at age seventeen she could wield any broom or mop as effective staff-weapon.

Seconds later, Mr. Jones was howling on the freshly cleaned floor, not sure which part to hold and which hurt most – his crown jewels, his jaw or his kneecap.

"My money!" Coralee demanded icily, still clutching the mop.

Whimpering, Mr. Jones crawled across the tiles, not daring to risk her using the staff again. As quickly as he could he counted out the bills he owed her for her cleaning.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," Coralee said politely, pocketing the money and turning to leave. Seeing a spiteful gleam in his eyes as she was about to close the door, she paused and looked at him with levelled gaze. "Don't think you can get me into trouble with the Peacekeepers for this, Mr. Jones. I clean the barracks as well and, well, let's say you are not the first one to learn that the only service I render is cleaning buildings."

Once she had left, a quick glance at the sun told her that she had better hurry. The altercation with Mr. Jones had cost her more time than she had to spare and she had yet to change into her Reaping clothes. Running down the street, she expertly weaved through the crowd that was already making its way to the square, though quite a few gave her an irate glance or word for her reckless speed. Seeing the orphanage ahead, she sped up even further, leaping up the front stairs, almost falling over a bucket of dirty water placed by the door.

"Watch out!" a young voice called.

Coralee skidded to a halt. Turning around she saw a small wisp of a girl, one of the new kids from the winters. "Sorry," she said. "But I'm running late."

"As am I now, thanks to you," the girl, Fenny, replied, pointing at the fresh dust prints Coralee's shoes had left on the damp floor. "I have waited for everyone to leave to clean the entryway, and now…" There was a little quiver in the girl's voice.

Alarmed, Coralee stepped closer. Laying a soothing hand on her shoulder she said: "Let me guess: You attempted to clean the entryway at least five times this morning?"

The girl sniffled and nodded.

"The entryway is always the worst spot to clean. But you are very clever, figuring out that you'd just have to wait till everyone has left. I'm sorry to have messed up your plan. But I promise, I'll be quick in changing my clothes and then I'll help you finish up here. Because even if the floor is spotless, Mrs. Ames will still scold you if you leave the bucket and mop out here."

Coralee kept her word and between the two of them the entryway was quickly done and the mop and bucket put away. Taking the younger girl by the hand, Coralee then marched them quickly in the direction of the square.

On their way they already encountered Peacekeepers who were starting patrolling the streets for any stragglers or those who thought that if they only hid well enough could escape the ceremony. Though the latter had not happened in a long time. Everyone knew the penalties for hiding on Reaping Day… for young kids it was a few lashes with the whip, for kids of reaping age an instant ticket into the arena either that or the next year, depending on when one was found, and for adults either prison, a couple of dozen lashes with the whip or being avoxed, depending on the number of transgressions the adult had already accumulated. And everyone knew that in the meantime, the Peacekeepers had the government's permission to execute the sentence on family members on behalf of their errant relative. Of course this did not keep the one in hiding from being punished as well once found… So hiding only cost everyone double and even the most selfish one would not risk that.

"You are late," a burly Peacekeeper called to Coraelee and her little companion.

Coralee instantly recognized him. He was one of the squad-leaders, quite a stickler for rules. "Remember Avis?" she replied, not slowing her pace.

As she had expected, the Peacekeeper kept step with them. He nodded.

"Well, someone else needed to learn the lesson today I once taught Avis."

"One of my men?" the squad-leader asked in alarm.

"No, a civilian."

The relief was barely visible in the Peacekeeper's stern countenance, but it was there. "You want to press charges?"

Coralee shook her head. "I don't think that's necessary. As you know, the lesson can be quite effective."

At this the Peacekeeper allowed himself a tiny smirk. Seeing that they were now close enough to the square that even if the girls attempted to run it would be futile, he bid them farewell and resumed his patrolling duty.

Next to her, Fenny was looking up to Coralee in awe. "I never knew a Peacekeeper could be so… civil. Weren't you afraid of him?" Fear of Peacekeepers was something akin to a natural habit in most district citizens, especially those from the woods.

"Not really. When you clean the barracks, you get used to them and their ways. They are human after all," Coralee said. Seeing a slightly confused look on the girl's face, she elaborated: "You know how Mrs. Ames dislikes it when you miss a spot in cleaning? Keeping the orphanage clean is one of her rules. The squad-leader also cares much about rules. Both the rules that are to be followed by the citizens of Panem and the special rules made for the Peacekeepers. For example: Peacekeepers are not to marry as long as they serve Panem as Peacekeeper. So if the squad-leader finds out that one of his men secretly married, he dislikes it immensely and will punish that Peacekeeper."

"But he sounded like he would protect you." Apparently Fenny's confusion was not done away by Coralee's explanation.

"Well, it is his job to protect me. See, you know the laws about how nobody is to murder someone without exceptional causes, or steal for another person. There are a number of other laws like that, designed to protect the people and the order in the country. What happened was that once, when I was cleaning the barracks, one of the Peacekeepers tried to do something to me which was against the law."

"And he came to protect you?"

"He would have, if he had had a chance." Coralee laughed quietly. "But I was too quick. Because you are always allowed to defend yourself against anyone who tries to harm you by going against the law. And that's what I did. I used the staff of the mop and hurt this man in self-defence. But the squad-leader was so angry with his man that he had the man do my work in the barracks for a whole week and still paid me as if I had done all the cleaning."

"So there are good Peacekeepers?" Fenny truly was in awe at this discovery.

"Yes, there are. You just have to get to know them and follow the rules."

It were thoughts about the rules and laws in Panem which kept Coralee's mind busy as she signed in just at the nick of time and joined her year-mates. As she stood listening to the History, she wondered, how it could be that a country like Panem, with laws which were mostly fair, could come up with something like the Hunger Games – an institution which seemed to bypass any law in existence, most prominently murder. So occupied was she that she almost missed the escort calling out the first name:

"Coralee Lume!"

* * *

 _District 7 – Jace Swallow, 13 years_

Tesserae was a matter of pride in his family. And as youngest, Jace was privileged to take out the highest number of tesserae of the family. At thirteen he had already twenty-one slips with his name in the bowl and that was only because the rules stipulated immediate family only. No siblings-in-law or nephews and nieces, unless they were living as orphans in the same household. Anyway, twenty-one slips was truly an impressive number. With this he was the boy with the highest number among his year-mates and that was certainly something to be proud of.

As the family, together with the other members of the working crew to which they belonged, made its way from the camp in the forest to the big city where the Reaping would be held that day, Jace scoffed at the thought of all those ninnies from the city who would be frightened today because they had one, or two, or maybe even seven slips to their name. Scared out of their wits when the odds were truly in their favour… Obviously they had no pride in them and knew nothing about the real life in District 7.

Real life in District 7 obviously was life as a lumber jack, growing up in the forest, working in the forest, and eventually dying in the forest. It was far from the backward existence those hoity-toity townies thought it to be, with trees being cut down manually by hundreds of axe-swinging lumber-jacks… As if this way they could satisfy Panem's need for lumber. Not when most houses in the whole country – the Capitol excepted – were built from wood, not when most furniture was manufactured from wood, not when their own district used wood for cooking and in winter for heating. Yes, most lumber jacks knew how to use an axe and a hatchet. But they also knew how to handle a chainsaw and the harvesters. Those were much more effective in cutting down trees.

The thought of the harvesters caused a dreamy smile to spread over Jace's young face. It was his most fervent wish to become one day operator of one of those huge machines, to move those levers and grab the trees, start up the chain saws and cut the tree into a perfect log. And as youngest of his family, he might actually see this dream come true. Because with most of his siblings already being grown up and some even having started families of their own, he could sell the tesserae he took out for them. Most of the times he sold them among the family, though he might get a better price somewhere else, but blood was thicker than water. And the money he got this way ensured that he could stay in school for those additional courses required to eventually qualify for the harvester operator exams. Because unfortunately tesserae alone was not enough to keep one alive in the forest.

The work was hard, but the wages for the general working crew were not too high and with the camps not allowing for vegetable gardens with which to help with the procurement of food, the money was often stretched too thin in buying said food if there were too many mouths to feed. Even with the tesserae. So in most families both parents worked, unless they had small children who were too young for school and there was nobody else to look after them. And if a family had many children, even the children had to work, once they were of working age.

As in all districts, working age in District 7 was twelve years, same as the age one became eligible for tesserae. But just because one was of working age did not mean that one actually got work. Or at least not the work one was looking for. Logging was classified as dangerous work, so the required age for any of the tool-involving logging jobs was eighteen, despite the fact that most kids learned how to handle axe and hatchet at a much earlier age.

Jobs available to twelve-year-olds were usually simple factory jobs – and no true lumber jack kid would be caught alive signing up for a job in one of the wood processing factories – or menial forest work such as picking up smaller limbs from the trees or helping with reforesting harvested areas, jobs which paid even less.

All of his older siblings had to get one of those menial forest jobs to help earn money to keep the family fed, which prevented them from staying in school for the afternoon courses and qualify for the better and better-paying jobs. But as latecomer and consequently pet of the family, Jace's chances were much better. That was, if he lived long enough and did not get reaped before.

Because jobs defined who you were in District 7, it was almost exclusively lumber jack kids who took out tesserae, turning the odds decidedly against them. As such it was almost exclusively lumber jack kids who were reaped as tribute year after year. And they felt a certain pride about it. To know that it was their skills with axe and hatchet the district was famous for in terms of tributes and not the feeble-minded factory kids, who would only drag down District 7's reputation was something to be proud of. And while their district was not known for volunteers like the Career districts, the lumber jack kids did what they could to ensure that their district was represented by worthy tributes – lumber jack tributes. This was another reason why Jace had taken out the maximum number of tesserae for the past two years. Also by now his family would most likely have done well enough for themselves without the tesserae, what with his father having gained a certain seniority and correlating pay raise and his siblings all working as well. So had Jace been willing to take on a job same as his siblings did when his age, he would not have had to take out a single tesserae. But that would have placed him on the same level as the factory kids and no lumber jack kid wanted to be mistaken for a factory kid. Peer pressure could do wonders to the odds.

It was a strangely divided society in District 7, but as long as the production requirements were met and there was no inter-district fighting, the Capitol certainly saw no need to interfere. The chasm between the different philosophies presented by factory workers and lumber jacks was even visible in the way the kids grouped together in the Reaping area.

As Jace signed in, he could not suppress a small chant of "They hop, they mop, they chop… They hop, they mop, they…" And with the second 'chop' he joined the group of thirteen year old lumber jack kids on the boys' side.

"What were you just saying?" one of his year mates asked.

Jace grinned. "I said: They hop, they mop, they chop. Look how people are grouping in the square. There we have the factory kids, who hop every day to the chime of the factory bells, ready to start their shifts. They try to act all superior… that they stand near the end of each group so as not to make it more difficult for those 'less' fortunate who have taken out tesserae to reach the stage should their names be called out. Truth is, they are frightened and try to hide behind the other kids. Not that this would help them, should by matter of chance their name be called. Then, in the middle, we have the orphans. Everyone knows that they clean, so not much wit in this. And well, we as lumber jack kids obviously chop."

"And we are obviously not afraid to stand up in the front of our groups."

"Indeed, we render our district a most noble service in allowing the townies to hide behind us." Unfortunately Jace's sarcasm was lost on his companion, but the boy was sure that for all the bravery the lumber jack kids put on, there were quite a few among them who would have preferred to do it like the townies did and lurk in the back.

The ceremony began and Jace was immediately bored out of his mind. Blah, blah, blah, and then someone, mankind most likely, did something really stupid and the world came crashing down, only for someone else, those of mankind who survived the crashing down of the world, to clean up after this and call the new country Panem. Of course it was perfect, though there were, also of course, those who did not understand this true perfection, so these poor wretches with their underdeveloped understanding thought it fun to have a rebellion. Only to lose. Of course. Perfection and such had to prevail. And so Panem in all its perfection continues to this day. Blah, blah, blah. And now see the latest embodiment of perfection in the form of Umberto Tinkle, District 7's escort.

The whole of Jace's rendition of the History took less than five minutes and after this he was bored even more. Like an eternity of torture, the detailed blessings of Panem were given to the not really enraptured audience, an eternity solely designed to drive the kids crazy with fear and give the audience at the Capitol some weepy faces.

Jace felt how he was zoning out, his mind fast moving to a place where he was manning a harvester, gracefully moving it through the forest aisle, zooming in on the perfect tree…

A sharp nudge from the boy next to him brought him back to his senses and had him almost stumble. "Hey? What's the matter with you?" he asked the boy accusingly.

"No, what's the matter with you?" the boy retorted. "Jace, your name has been called out."

"Not true!" Jace muttered.

"Too true," the boy on his other side hissed.

"Jace Swallow! Where are you dear?" Umberto Tinkle called again at this moment and sealed Jace's fate.

* * *

 _District 7 – Coralee Lume, 17Y_

As an orphan, Coralee did not know who to expect as visitor to bid her adieu, other than Mrs. Ames who most likely considered such a visit her duty. While she got along with the other kids in the orphanage, she had no particular friend or even a sweetheart among them or her schoolmates. It was as if until this moment she had just lived, ambled along, never caring where the current of life carried her, not even planning for the future. Yes, there were those moments, when she thought a certain boy or young man handsome and would not have minded getting to know him. But her life was a busy one… No, that was not true. Her life might have been busy, but surely it was not too busy to spend an hour or two in the evening with someone she considered special. Instead she had accepted even more cleaning work, though in retrospect, while it had kept her from developing a healthy social life, it had taught her many things others were unaware of. Cleaning for the Peacekeepers had had her come into contact with more than broom and mop. After the episode with Avis almost three years ago, when she had defended herself valiantly with the help of her mop, some of the Peacekeepers, who were just finishing their training by the time she got there to clean the hall, had started to give her even further pointers in terms of self-defence. Coralee was sure that some of this might prove helpful in the arena…

It was only now that her life had taken such a drastic turn and she thought about her past, that she finally realized that however much unconsciously she had planned for a future after all. An uncharacteristic future for one from District 7, but it made it no less apparent to her now: She had been working towards one day becoming a Peacekeeper herself. It did not matter to her that it meant twenty years of service and by default most likely never having a family of her own. As orphan she knew that family was not only defined by blood and that having a family by blood did not always protect you from unhappiness either. So to one who had accepted the orphanage as family, the Peacekeepers could have been a substitute family just as well. A family she now never would belong to.

Coralee felt tears well up in her eyes at this thought and was therefore relieved when the door opened to distract her. To her surprise, it was little Fenny who entered. Not even waiting for the door to be closed again, the little girl rushed to Coralee and threw her arms around her. Sobs wrecked her thin body as the older girl held her and tried to soothe her.

"'tis not fair…" Fenny sobbed. "'tis not fair! Why you?"

"Shhh… Fenny, isn't that what all friends and family ask everywhere in the country, every time one of those dear to them is reaped? But that's how it is. And in some ways it's perhaps good that it was me who was reaped."

"Good? How can it be good that it was you?" At least the anger which rose in Fenny calmed the tears.

"Think of all the eighteen year olds who can now celebrate that they are free. Would you rather see one of them reaped? Or a twelve-year-old?"

"Yes!" Fenny exclaimed with vehemence.

Coralee had to smile at this childish honesty, but decided to be honest as well. "So do I. But unlike the eighteen year olds, I would not have been free then. I'd still have to make it through another Reaping. So perhaps it is for the better that I was reaped today. It spares me the anxiety of next year's Reaping."

"This is a weak excuse and you know it," Fenny protested.

Coralee chuckled lightly. "Yes, it is. But it is better than crying and wailing at the unfairness… That would break me down and a broken down person can't fight to return back home. And you have to believe me, I will fight. I have no idea what my chances are, but probably better than the chances of some. Then add a little luck and before you know it, I'll be back."

Fenny was silent for a few moments, taking in Coralee's brave words. Suddenly she dug into the pocket of her skirt. Retrieving something small, she thrust it into Coralee's hand. "Take this. It's a token."

Opening her hand, Coralee saw a beautifully carved little wooden squirrel. With wondering eyes, she looked at Fenny. "Are you sure?" She had an idea that this tiny animal once had been a gift from her parents and judging by the fact that Fenny apparently carried it everywhere, she must cherish it a lot. And with her parents being dead less than a year…

The little girl nodded determinedly. "My father made it. He said, it would protect me. I want it to protect you."

Coralee hugged Fenny hard. "Thank you!" she whispered hoarsely.

A Peacekeeper reminded them that it was time for Fenny to go and reluctantly the two girls parted.

Her next visitor was the one Coralee had expected: Mrs. Ames. The visit was short and to the purpose, just like one envisioned a visit of duty. Mrs. Ames telling Coralee that she was sorry for her, that she was proud of Coralee for being so dutiful a child and Coralee thanking Mrs. Ames for her care over the years.

But Mrs. Ames was not Coralee's last visitor. Shortly before the hour of goodbye was up, the door opened again to reveal the squad leader. Coralee's eyes widened in surprise. She knew that Peacekeepers usually did not visit tributes.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were all set for what is to come next," he said gruffly. "I know you can fight. It should get you some decent allies, perhaps even the Careers."

"We'll see… It also depends a lot on what kind of kids this year's Careers are. You know me, I don't deal well with too much arrogance."

The squad leader nodded. "What about a token?"

Coralee showed him the squirrel. "I got it from a friend who is almost like a little sister to me." She suddenly got an idea. "I know you will not be staying here long enough to see it come into fruition, but could you perhaps recommend Fenny Larson as cleaning lady to the Peacekeeper barracks once she becomes old enough? You saw her earlier today with me."

"She looked a mite scared…"

"She did not yet know that Peacekeepers are just normal humans like the rest of us. She knows now. I think it will make a difference. And I've seen her work at the orphanage. She is good and she is clever. She will do a good job with the barracks."

"And pick up some helpful things in self-defence?" The squad-leader shot her a questioning look.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But it would be nice to know that she'll have a job when the time comes."

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

 _District 7 – Jace Swallow, 13Y_

This was the downside of being the youngest: The whole family constantly made a fuss about you. With all her other children already grown up, his mother made even a fuss about a minor scrape he got from traipsing through the woods to watch the harvesters as if he was about to have his leg cut off. Consequently the fuss she now made about his being reaped was at least tenfold, if not hundredfold. As if making a fuss changed anything. It did not and it did not help him.

What was even worse: Even his older brothers, who usually just rolled their eyes at their mother's fussing ways where it concerned minor things, made a fuss themselves now.

Eventually Jace's patience was worn so thin that it faded completely into nothingness and he snapped: "What is this? The competition for the most fussing family member? If so, what can you win? Hopefully something worthwhile!"

"Little brother…" his eldest brother began, but Jace cut him off.

"I know, I know. You are grieving while at the same time trying not to show it in my presence. We all know that I'm as good as dead."

"You don't know," his sister interrupted, while his mother burst into a fresh bout of tears and had to be held by their father.

"Of course I know!" Jace had enough of this baby-talk and avoiding the truth. "No thirteen-year-old has ever won. So even if, after Finnick Odair's victory two years ago, we assume a fourteen-year-old has a chance, I'm one year too young. And honestly, Finnick Odair was no normal fourteen year old. So, I'm dead. Unless we get a miracle arena where there is nothing but peanut fields and all other tributes are allergic to peanuts. Which, you have to admit, is highly unlikely. Therefore, while I understand that you are upset, do you really want me to carry a picture of a weepy mess of a family with me as last memory of you into the arena?"

Seeing the truth in his baby-brother's words, his oldest brother pulled himself together. "And what do you suggest we do instead? Have a party?"

"Why not? At least that would be something different," Jace said. "Who knows, maybe if we ask them, the Peacekeepers can get us some cake to make it a merry party. We could offer to share with them."

The idea of Peacekeepers partying together with a tribute and his family was so ludicrous that even Jace's mother had to smile weakly.

"Well, I don't think you'll get cake before you are on the train, though I have heard rumours that they serve all kinds of delicious food there to the tributes," his sister said. "So what would you have us do instead of eating cake to party?"

"What about a quick round of rhyming game? First one to fail at finding a rhyme is to do the dishes tonight," Jace eventually suggested to give them back a touch of normalcy. "And I suggest we start with cake for rhymes since it looks to be the only cake we'll have here."

The cake was to remain a joke among them all through rhyming it with take, bake, shake, snake, lake and other words. Round and round it went until it was eventually Jace himself who failed to come up with another rhyme.

"Looks like I'll have to do the dishes on the train tonight."

This had them chuckle again as they all imagined the surprised looks of the other tribute, their mentors, but especially Umberto Tinkle should Jace attempt to go through with this. At the same time the fact that Jace would by then be speeding away from them, sobered all of them, though thankfully they did not burst out into tears again.

A knock on the door alerted them of the time. One by one the family members filed out. It was only when Jace's eldest brother was about to leave that he realized that they all had failed to give him a token. He was sure both his mother and sister had been carrying something special with them just in case, but they had obviously forgotten. Frantically digging around in his pockets, he found a piece of a whetstone which had broken off the main stone when he had sharpened the kitchen knives earlier today. And since he had not wanted that it accidentally made its way into any of the food, he had stuffed it in his pockets. He tossed it to Jace. "Token," he said and then left his little brother.

* * *

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

Once more it was time for Caesar to make a bridge. Donning his stage smile and making sure that his wig was sitting straight, he turned to the camera. "There you have it, my dear audience, half of this year's tributes. And this last Reaping so far included the youngest male tribute this year, thirteen year old Jace Swallow. Compared to his district partner he sure looked rather scrawny, but as we all know this does not mean much. After all, compared to a butcher's knife, a scalpel looks equally scrawny and we all know what magnificent work the surgeons here at the Capitol can perform with a scalpel."

With this, they were off to another set of commercials, this time about the Capitol's prosperous plastic surgery industry.

As Caesar watched the clips on a small screen, he marvelled at the sheer endless stream of fashionable alterations he had seen advertised over the years. Right now it seemed that rainbow dyed foot soles and split earlobes were the must haves in terms of alterations. Caesar shuddered at the thought of the type of impractical footwear this sole-dye fad would carry in its wake. As for the split earlobes… For all his life, Caesar had avoided any permanent alterations which were solely fashionable. Truly, anyone with just half an ounce of brain would know that fashions in the Capitol were changing too rapidly to go for anything permanent in terms of changes. To be sure, plastic surgery had its use… It was simply not possible to continue as popular show master in a city such as the Capitol without having age-telling wrinkles taken care of or other lifting procedures which helped maintain the image of a young and healthy Capitolite. And Caesar was realistic enough to know that nobody was irreplaceable, so if he did not want to lose his job to someone much younger than himself, he had to take care to maintain his ageless countenance. But other than that… Luckily as show master, part of his job was to be recognizable, and one never achieved that with constantly changing too much. So he only changed his hair colour, including facial hair, according to the latest trend, but kept everything else the same. Even the colour and cut of his suit for the Hunger Games interviews and the style of the wig remained the same year after year. Of course he would never be considered truly fashionable with this identity, but he preferred it this way. He did not want to end like those poor bizarre citizens, who had red perma-dyed feet, green kneecaps and blue palms with webbing between the fingers, who bore testimony of the folly of following the fashion dictum without employing sense. Those people by now were no longer able to keep up with current trends because some changes could not be undone or reworked and had not even the privilege of being considered eccentric or individualistic. No, they just showed the ghost of fashion past.

Well, at least the foot soles for the current fashion victims could later be hidden in suitable shoes.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 7 - Reaping District 6

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 7: Reaping – Philosophers (District 6)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"Welcome back and welcome to the second half of this year's Hunger Games Reapings!" Caesar greeted the audience as soon as the last commercial clip had faded. "We have seen six districts over the past three hours and we have six more to go. So without further ado, let us move on with lightning speed to District Six. And speaking about speed: Without our transportation district – for such, as you well know, is District Six's main industry – we would not have such marvellous trains such as the one our tributes from District Ten are now embarking. Enjoy the split screen pictures of the parting of the tributes from District Ten as well as the pictures of the gathered District Six before we focus all our attention in due time on the latter district for the actual Reaping and hear the experienced escort Pancratius Serva tell the children of District Six: 'Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!'"

As soon as Caesar was finished, he braced himself for the inevitable phone call he would receive any minute now from the Head of the Hunger Games Escort Centre: Eloise Fourier. This lovely lady had worked her way from being lowly escort in District 10 all the way to successful escort of District 2 before she had been appointed Head of the Hunger Games Escort Centre. She was all for strict professionalism and above all fairness. Which in Caesar's case meant that either he was to mention all escorts by name in his district introductions or none at all. But to mention only some and single out only one like that… and not just because this escort might be new this year or might be the escort of the district which won the games the year before, but the long-time escort of District 6… It went against all Eloise's believes of fairness. Unfortunately though, Caesar could not tell her that he was actually doing this because of fairness. A fairness that ranked far above the equal rights of all escorts: The fairness to allow any and all tributes to garner sponsors. Because things with District 6 were a little difficult. This district's secondary industry was oil and any products derived from it. Unfortunately one of the products derived was a highly addictive drug which was uncommonly cheap. It was the district's own bane and especially the past victors of the Hunger Games from District 6 were known to have become hooked to that stuff. Consequently none of them was really in a position to get sponsors for their tributes. The only other person who had access to the Sponsor Lounge as well as the mentor updates therefore was the escort. But usually few escorts cared for the place. Pancratius however was different. He cared for the tributes enough to try and help them in any way he could. So he negotiated with potential sponsors in the mentors' stead and checked upon the tributes via the mentor updates, so that the only thing the official mentors of District 6 had to do was sign the sponsor deals and to send out gifts when Pancratius told them to. In fact, Caesar was quite sure, that at least a few of the true mentors from the other districts had come to accept the quirky Capitolite as one of their own in the lounge. So the least Caesar could do to help Serva and the tributes of District 6 was to remind the audience to whom to turn in order to place sponsor money.

The phone rang just as expected and Caesar sighed. "Hello Eloise."

* * *

 _District 6 – Cassiopeia Jansen, 15 years_

The girl, almost a woman, stopped at the tracks and listened carefully for any approaching trains. She knew all those telltale signs: the slight rumble in the earth, the shift in the air, the sounds. But then she realized that today was Reaping Day and she laughed at herself, because on Reaping Day there would be no trains. At least not till much later in the day, when some of the tribute trains would make their way through the large junction of District 6.

She quickly crossed the tracks and ran up to the hut which lay on the far side of it. Knocking, she barely waited to be asked inside before opening the door.

"Cassiopeia!" an elderly man greeted her with surprise written clearly on his features. "I did not expect you today, lass."

"Angus!" the girl returned the greeting. "Of course I would come today. I come every day, as you well know. Why should today be any different?"

"Hm… I don't know? Perhaps because today is Reaping Day and you have to be at the Barren Field in less than two hours?" the old man teased.

"Exactly. Which gives me more than one hour to spend with you!" Cassiopeia countered with a grin.

"What of your parents?" Angus inquired.

The girl sighed. Her parents were a sore point and none of Angus' many wise words could help her truly forgive them. Yes, she knew her parents cared for her, but somehow they did it all wrong. Today was just another example for that. "Mama is with the hairdresser, getting her hair done. And Papa is busy paying bills. The last few weeks were so demanding at work that he did not get his round done like he usually does and he doesn't want to have outstanding debts when the ceremony begins." She did not have to tell Angus that her mother getting her hair done was because her mother did not want to give her daughter any reason to be embarrassed by her looks later, or that her father believed that having outstanding debts at the Reaping brought bad luck to one's family and might result in his daughter getting reaped. Her old friend already knew all this. He also knew that Cassiopeia did not care about how her mother looked if it meant that she actually got to spend some time with her and learn how she felt rather than looked. That she did not care for the odds or superstition if it meant spending time with her father.

"Did they leave you with Elcie again?" Angus asked.

Cassiopeia rolled her eyes and nodded. "Sent me over to her like I was still a little baby. Other kids my age already work. None of my classmates have babysitters. Rather, they are the babysitters themselves now." She busied herself with tidying up the little cottage and discreetly making sure that her dear friend had some lunch.

"Well, so are you", Angus replied with a smile. "Just look at you. Granted, you are taking care of an old man instead of a little child, but you are doing very much the same things your class mates do. Don't shake your head so. Denial will not change the fact that over the last years our relationship in terms of responsibilities has shifted. Gone is the little runt of a girl I found playing by the tracks all those years ago."

They both smiled at the memory of that day…

 _She had escaped that stupid Elcie. Again. Actually it was so easy to do… All she had to do was to pretend to dutifully have her afternoon nap and then wait for Elcie to do the same. The little five year old girl marvelled at the fact that a grown-up such as Elcie would take an afternoon nap like a baby. She, Cassiopeia, had quickly grown out of them and so being forced to lie still for at least two hours every afternoon while she heard other children playing outside was not easy for her. Eventually her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she had quietly slipped out the backdoor of Elcie's home. The whole world looked so differently now, full of adventures. But the best adventures were to be found by the railroad tracks, she knew. She liked walking along them, counting the logs and seeing all those trains speed by on their way somewhere else._

 _Today the sun was shining brightly and suddenly she saw it: Among the rough pebbles that made the track bed was a beautiful, shimmering stone. So beautiful she just had to have it. Without thinking twice, she climbed across the iron rail and crouched down to pick up the pebble._

" _What are you doing here? Get off the rails immediately. It's dangerous! The tracks are no playground!" The voice had been gruff and harsh, but concerned at the same time. Still, the sudden appearance of the voice – and the man to whom the voice belonged –shocked Cassiopeia to such an extent that she was frozen in spot. But there was not time to be frozen in spot, especially when that spot was the tracks. The man obviously had sensed a train coming and seeing the girl incapable of moving, swiftly picked her up and dragged her off the track. "See," he scolded her. "That is why you are not to play on the tracks. What are you doing here anyway?"_

" _I wanted that stone," Cassiopeia answered frightened and showed him her treasure._

" _Of course," the man scoffed. "But what about your parents? Where are they?"_

" _At work," the girl whispered._

It had taken Angus all of the remaining afternoon to get the story out of Cassiopeia. How her parents were both working and had left her with a babysitter so that their precious little daughter would not get into trouble. The old man had had no difficulties in understanding that the irresponsible woman was a drug-addict who had only agreed to watch the girl because the money would buy her more drugs. At least the woman had been responsible enough to keep the drugs out of the little girl's reach.

Not wanting Cassiopeia fall victim to this bane of the district, Angus had taken it upon himself to watch after the girl. He had taught her how to check for approaching trains and not to linger on the tracks. Later he had made sure that she did her homework and had helped her with the things she had not understood the first time around in school. But he had also taught her about life and his philosophy. As guard for one of the signal towers in District 6 he not only had time to spare for philosophical thoughts in between directing trains to the correct tracks, he also had a clear view of a large part of the district. At least he could see farther than most. And what he could not see with his eyes, he could see with his mind simply by knowing how the district, as well as the nation as whole, worked. He had taught Cassiopeia to see the beauty even in the ugliness the hydraulic fracturing in the oil fields caused. To see the good in the processing industries which gave the country refined medicine, even if few could afford it. "The knowledge is there and that is what is important. Not knowing can be dangerous." Luckily, with Elcie as negative example, he had not to warn her from the evils of the medical industry.

Neither had ever told Cassiopeia's parents where their daughter truly spent her days. Even though Angus thought it was not the best option to take double shifts or two jobs upon themselves to keep their daughter safe from work and tesserae, he could not completely fault her parents for trying to protect Cassiopeia as well as they could. And now there was another secret between them. Despite all their care, Cassiopeia had taken out tesserae. Not much, just one tessera a year for the past three years, which she had given it to Angus.

 _The knock at the door of the signal tower went unanswered at first and only when Cassiopeia had resorted to pounding on the heavy door did she hear footsteps descending the stairs. But those were not the footsteps she knew. And the man who eventually opened the door was certainly not Angus. He looked at the girl with anger._

" _What do you want? This is no place for children! Get lost!"_

 _Cassiopeia gulped. She would not put it past that man to raise his hand against her should she not leave quick enough for his liking. But she had to know where Angus was. So she gathered all her courage and asked as politely as she could._

" _He's sick," the man answered gruffly._

" _Please, sir, could you tell me where he lives. So that I may look in on him?"_

 _Whatever were his motives, the man told her after a moment of consideration. But he also added: "Tell the old man that the company is not paying for being sick." There was a certain glee in the man's eyes the girl did not immediately comprehend._

 _Cassiopeia just nodded and scrambled away quickly in the direction he had given her._

 _Angus was indeed sick with a severe bout of flu. He had been alarmed and delighted at the same time to see his little friend._

" _What if you catch the flu as well," he had tried to warn her off, but Cassiopeia would not hear of it. Instead she told him about the pay, at which Angus just nodded._

" _That's the way it is. I expected nothing else," he said hoarsely. He made light of his situation, which Cassiopeia soon enough discovered to be quite grave._

 _With no living family to support him – his wife had died ten years before – and little savings, Angus had not the means to acquire medicine and soon not even enough money to buy food. The worker at the signal tower obviously had known that such an illness might well mean the death of an old man such as Angus and in this district it meant that someone else would get Angus' comfortable job, with the temporary replacement being the most likely candidate to inherit the job._

 _It was three days later that Cassiopeia discovered the empty larder when she proposed cooking a soup for him to help him get better. Not being fooled by his placating excuses, she had thought the matter over for some time, and by the time she had bid him a good night, had decided that she would help him. He might not be her family by blood, but he was in so many ways like a grandfather to her that she could not see him suffer like this. She signed up for one tessera and proudly presented him with the first ration of grain and oil the next day._

 _Angus was furious with her. "You had not right to do that!"_

" _I have the right to take out up to three tesserae," she countered a little hotly. "And while my family might not need it, you can't expect me to stand by and see you starve to death! The other option would be to bring you food from home, but that would be stealing from my parents and you taught me that stealing should never be done unless it was absolutely necessary and one has exhausted all other possibilities. And tessera is a legal possibility! Please, Angus, I don't want to lose you. Not in such a way!" There were tears in her eyes, but she steadily held his gaze until he relented._

Once she had taken out the first tessera, Cassiopeia had insisted on gifting her honorary grandfather with a tessera each of the following years, because even once he was healthy enough it did not change the fact that one day he would be too old to climb the steps of the signal tower. One day he would have to live solely by what he was growing in his vegetable garden – which, given the damage the transportation and the fracturing had caused to the soil of District 6, was not much – and his savings. So if he was not to starve within the first or second year of his eventual retirement, he would need to increase his savings and the tessera would help a bit there. Besides, as Cassiopeia got not tired of assuring him, one additional slip per year did not tip the odds that much against her.

Still, Angus felt guilty when he thought of the three additional slips Cassiopeia had acquired through him. That was why he now got up to retrieve a small, ancient coin from a drawer in his bedroom.

"Here, I want you to take this with you as token, just in case you get reaped after all."

Curiously Cassiopeia examined the coin. The edge was corroded, making it unable for her to make out the letters which had once been lining the outside. But she could still make out that one side showed some kind of bird while the other showed a man's head, though in both cases the lines there were faded with age as well. Questioningly she looked at Angus. The coin was obviously old, perhaps even antique, pre-cataclysmic. But Angus never gave her something without giving her also some piece of wisdom.

* * *

 _District 6 – Griffin Doyle, 18 Years_

Another season's work was done. Yesterday they had seen the last of the hovercrafts off. One could always tell the approaching of the Hunger Games season by the increase of the workload for District 6's transportation maintenance crews. The trains for the escorts and tributes were to be checked and repaired along with the latest technology the Capitol wanted the tributes to enjoy installed. Then there were the hovercrafts of course, which would be needed for the arena, and the automobiles. The young man standing in front of the mirror to make sure his tie sat correctly, smiled at the remembrance of the automobiles. While Doyle's garage accepted all kinds of works for transportation vehicles as long as they fitted into the garage hall, their true specialty was automobiles. The hover technology, as interesting as it was and as comfortable as it made travel, was nothing to the connection four wheels gave the driver of a vehicle to the road he was travelling. There were only few garages left which knew how to handle the delicate systems of those wheeled vehicles, and of those garages, most had to be content with maintaining and repairing the harvesters of District 7 and District 9. The automobiles Doyle's garage looked after were those vehicles which conveyed the tributes from the Justice Buildings to the stations, as well as those automobiles wealthy and eccentric Capitolites kept as status symbols. The inspection of one of these cars paid at least as much as the inspection of five harvesters. But those automobiles had much more delicate systems and spare parts were rare. These could not simply be mass manufactured, since these automobiles rarely resembled each other close enough for this. So Doyle's garage had to offer the manufacturing of spare parts as well. And that was intricate work. Not only in terms of workmanship, but also in terms of diplomacy where the organization of material was concerned. Organization was often as delicate a system as the automobiles themselves. Know the system and keep it running was Mr. Doyle's favourite saying and Griffin had grown up with this saying. It was the family's philosophy. Griffin was proud to carry on this philosophy though he was not a born but an adopted Doyle. He still remembered fondly the day Moses Doyle, after much thinking, had decided to look at the orphanage for a suitable child to raise as his successor for Doyle's garage after his wife had run away with a man from the oil fields. He wanted an heir, but without the complications of a new wife. So he had talked to the manager of the orphanage and then scattered a few mechanical parts around the playroom to see which child would be interested in screws, nuts and bolts, tools and such. And which child would stay interested longest. Pre-schoolers were not known for long attention spans, so – as Moses Doyle thought – any child who would pay attention to those things for more than ten minutes was promising. Griffin had eventually 'won' this contest and had promptly been adopted by Mr. Doyle. Of course all plans for the future depended on Griffin making it through the Reaping years alive.

'Just this final Reaping,' Griffin thought, giving his tie a final tug. After today he would be free if all went well.

Suddenly his musings were interrupted by some noise from the garage yard downstairs. Knowing that Mo, as Griffin called his adopted father, was right now in the bath, washing off the accumulated grime of the past days, he did not hesitate at investigating who was trespassing. With the tailor-made spare parts manufacturing they had often material stored which street urchins and never-do-wells thought would fetch them a good price at the black market. And while the Doyles always locked up everything, there were always those who tried, but even if they only got to the basic screws, the Doyles were not prepared to let them escape with their material.

Hurrying down the stairs inside the garage which connected the flat above with the workshop below, Griffin grabbed a wrench on his way, before throwing open the door. Immediately he saw a skinny boy of perhaps thirteen scrambling in the direction of the fence at the back of the yard. Child or not, the boy was old enough to know the difference between right and wrong. Taking aim, Griffin sent the wrench flying after the boy. There was a whirl through the air and then a quiet thump with an instant yelp as the wrench found its target. With quick steps Griffin reached the boy, who had a dazed look as a result from being hit on the head with a wrench. Grabbing the offender by the collar, Griffin yanked him up.

"Good for you that it's Reaping Day and the Peacekeepers have more important things to do, else I would call them here without hesitation," he growled. Dragging the boy with him to the garage he placed him unceremoniously on the stairs and proceeded to tie the boy's hands to one of the side railings with some of the insulating tape which was always close at hand in the garage. "So, instead you will sit here, quietly, without attempting to flee and we will just take you with us to the Barren Field for the Reaping. After that you'll be free. If you attempt to flee – and believe me, we will hear you and prevent any flight with enough time to spare to catch and roast a rat – we will take you to the Barren Field but will report you to the Peacekeepers there. The decision is yours." Cutting off the tape, Griffin went back upstairs to straighten up after this escapade.

When he reached the landing, he could see his father stand just inside the room which was both kitchen and living room to them. The door was open, so Moses Doyle had undoubtedly heard his son's words.

"You are quite in a forgiving mood, son," Mo said with raised eyebrows.

Griffin grinned. "Not exactly. I got to him before he could even pick up as much as some scrap metal from the yard. So at best we could accuse him of attempted theft. The threat of turning him in with the Peacekeepers and the lump on his head as well as the uncomfortable position I tied him up should be punishment enough."

"Appearing benevolent while at the same time crushing the spirit of your foes, now of what does this remind me?"

Father and son shared a wry smile. They were well aware how the system of Panem worked.

"Well, you don't have to like the system, but if it works, you'll just have to learn how best to use it to your advantage," Griffin said and picked up the comb to straighten his brown locks.

Mo nodded with approval.

True to their word, the Doyles released the boy once they reached the Barren Field. Both could not suppress a grin as they saw the lad rubbing his wrists vigorously as he signed in and joined his year-mates who all cast him slightly appalled glances at his rumpled and dirty appearance. Then Griffin signed in himself and joined the eighteen year olds at the front. His eyes wandered up to the stage and he inwardly cringed at the sight of the completely drugged victors who were already sprawled upon the provided chairs. People in other districts might laugh at drunken victors such as District 12's Haymitch Abernathy, but District 6's victors were just as pathetic. If anything they served their district as strong reminder why doing drugs was never a solution. And yet, Griffin asked himself, was he in a position to judge anyone who had survived the Hunger Games? Who had lived through bloodshed and miraculously come out alive? Was it perhaps only the body which was alive while their soul was gone? But no! Griffin felt deep down that body and soul were in many ways just a system like so many other things. So by treating a system with respect one might be able to fix it. To repair body and soul, bit by bit. And in case of the victors, the Capitol at least seemed to take care of repairing the body. Which allowed the victor to solely focus on repairing the soul. Griffin had no idea how one repaired a soul, but he instinctively knew that drugs had no part in this. Those only messed further with the soul, destroying it ultimately.

As the History wound to an end, Griffin made a quick mental calculation. He had twenty-one slips in the bowl, having taken out tesserae for himself and Mo every year. Perhaps it was not necessary to take it out, but it made life easier especially during those months where there were few maintenance jobs to be gotten and no automobiles at all. It was better than being hungry and losing some of the strength one might need the next season.

Pancratius Serva joined the victors on the stage. Not even the high heeled platform shoes to give him an additional fifteen centimetres or so could conceal the fact that Pancratius Serva was anything but tall. Of lean build he usually wore heavy fabrics to counter the idea that a mere windblast could topple him over. This year was no exception. A long coat of gold and black leather strips gave him additional weight. Luckily he had a voice deep enough to prevent him from looking completely ridiculous, though the black and gold spiked hairdo was almost achieving that on its own. And yet, compared to what Griffin had seen in past years' recaps of the Reapings, he knew that they were quite lucky with Pancratius Serva as escort. This man at least only bordered ridiculousness, whereas other escorts had long ago crossed that border.

The escort made his way to the first bowl and a fifteen year old girl named Cassiopeia Jansen climbed up to the stage. Next it was the boys' turn. Rifling through the slips of paper, Serva extracted one and read out the name:

"Griffin Doyle!"

* * *

 _District 6 – Cassiopeia Jansen, 15Y_

Cassiopeia sat on the sofa, dazed by what had happened. Her father was sitting next to her, bearing much the same expression. Her mother though, with perfectly coiffed hair, was wailing and ranting and pacing in front of the window.

"How could this have happened? Have we not done everything?"

The words echoed through the room and through the minds of the occupants. Well, at least the former question did. But truth be told, even Cassiopeia had not thought that the three additional slips made such a difference.

'They did not,' she corrected herself. 'A single slip is enough if it is drawn. It is a matter of chance and statistics. Only when looking at the whole of all Reapings it looks as if those with the most slips really get reaped. But the past has also known of twelve year olds being reaped, who even with tesserae could not have had as many slips as a wealthy eighteen year old.'

Looking at her mother, Cassiopeia suddenly found her most irritating, especially how even in the midst of her ranting she was checking to ensure that her hair was all in place. Who was she to her mother? A status symbol? Was that why she had no siblings? Did her mother ever wanted to have a child? Sure, she never was cold to Cassiopeia, but neither did she really exude warmth. There had been no embrace for Cassiopeia as her parents had entered the room, though her father at least had sought her nearness by sitting next to her on the sofa. She felt anger rise up in her, but before she could say anything she might regret later, she heard Angus' voice in her head: 'Don't let your anger get the better of you.' She knew she was being unfair to her mother, who worked as fulltime accountant with one of the medical companies and then in the evenings donned more practical clothes to clean the very facilities she was keeping account of. So yes, in a way, one could say that her mother cared enough for her to work hard to ensure that her daughter lacked nothing. Nothing safe her mother's attention and personal care, which was what Cassiopeia craved most.

Deciding to ignore her mother for the moment she turned to her father. Perhaps, as the time of the visit came to an end, her mother would have calmed down enough to show that she genuinely cared for Cassiopeia. But her father, he looked so lost that Cassiopeia could not help but try and comfort him, despite the fact that he, too, worked double shifts in the oil field whenever possible to protect his family and keep them well off. But he never forgot to check in upon her at night when he got home, he always asked if she had done her homework for school and once a month, when he would take a day off to take care and pay the bills and such, they would have breakfast together. So while she probably saw as much or little of her father as she did of her mother, the how made the difference and she felt all the closer to him for this.

She gently laid her hand on his arm and this single touch was too much for him and he started to sob quietly: "My baby… my only daughter, my child… Why does life have to take you away from me?"

"Shh… Papa… you never know, but perhaps I'll be the one to win the games? It's not as if there has never been a victor from District Six before."

"But… the other tributes… those from Districts One and Two, they always look so large and mean and brutal…"

"I know… I'll just have to stay away from them till something in the arena kills them for me. How does this sound for a plan? Papa?"

He hugged her tightly. "Oh Cassiopeia… I know I was not a good father to you. But… I did not know how to do it any differently. Look at me… I did not even bring something with me we could use as token for you."

"Don't worry about that." Cassiopeia actually smiled as she retrieved the coin. "My friend Angus gave me this as token." She recited the words he had given her as explanation: "Tributes die in the arena. Should you get reaped, death is lurking around every corner. But should you die, I want you to have at least a coin with which to pay the ferryman who will ferry your soul to the afterworld. Just as in the ancient times. And even if there is no ferryman to pay – because who knows what will come after we die – it is good to be prepared." She grinned as she added: "He then said that if I had a chance, I should wear it in a breast-pocket. It might be small, but it might be large enough to keep an arrow from piercing my heart."

"He sounds oddly wise and eccentric for a classmate."

"Oh no, Angus is no classmate. Angus is guard of signal tower number forty-seven and my best friend. He has been my friend ever since I was a little child. I spent most of my afternoons with him." Realizing what she had just revealed, she then told her father about Elcie's drug addiction and how she had come to be friends with the signal guard. The tesserae she left unsaid, though.

Her father was grieved to learn that they had been deceived by Elcie and also grieved that Cassiopeia had thought both her parents too unapproachable to tell them the truth. It also hurt a bit to think of all the money they had paid this undeserving woman while she was not doing her job.

"Papa, this is neither here nor there. Don't think of the past in this way, it will only give you stomach aches. Think of it only to not repeat the same mistakes in the future. So should you and Mama ever have another child, don't give her to Elcie. Stay at home for more than a day a month. Talk to Angus. Adopt him as my future sister or brother's grandfather. He'll be a much better and much wiser babysitter."

"If it is his wisdom speaking from your mouth he might really be worth knowing."

Now it was Cassiopeia hugging her father. "He is. I'm just sorry that I can't say goodbye properly to him. Since he has no family, he always signs up for today's afternoon and evening duties to let his other colleagues spend time with their families. Though if you are up to it, I dare say he would not say no to a nice bit of dinner, should you bring him some tonight."

With this father and daughter parted and even the mother finally realized that it would be her last chance to hug her daughter, so hug her she did. And while Cassiopeia certainly was frightened by what was lying ahead of her, frightened that she would in all likelihood find her death in the arena, knowing that her parents would try to live a more meaningful life, somewhat eased the strain on her heart. Just enough that she might be able to really live up to her full potential in the arena and see how far it would take her. Perhaps all the way to the end.

* * *

 _District 6 – Griffin Doyle, 18Y_

So close. He had been so close to being free of the bane that was the Hunger Games. And now it was all snatched away from him. Likewise all brave thoughts he had entertained about not allowing the games to make him a broken person like their morphling victors had flown away the moment his name had been called out. Because for all his philosophising he had completely forgotten that before one could put a soul back together, a victor had to survive the arena. That no matter how pathetic their victors were, they had done better than the countless children from their district who year after year died in the arena. A fate he was about to share.

The door opened to reveal Moses Doyle. Instantly Griffin felt better, less like a frightened child. Moses Doyle was a strong man and he had raised Griffin to be strong as well. There were no hugs between them, just a long, knowing look.

Mr. Doyle sat on the sofa and turned to Griffin. His son knew this expression. It was Mo's business expression. And Moses certainly intended to speak business with his son.

"Griffin, I know the next weeks will be hard. But I also know that you have it in you to succeed."

"But," Griffin wanted to interrupt only to find the father's hand stalling any further words.

"I also know that you will have to kill in order to come back home. There are twenty-four tributes, but there will be only one victor. Twenty-three will have to die for this. And if you want to come back home, it will be unavoidable for you to kill. I know this. And I forgive you in advance for this. Indeed, there is nothing to forgive about this. It is the system and we both know what this means. If the system has you kill someone, then I will blame the system, but never you! Keep this in mind, Griffin. You will always be my son, never a murderer."

"And what…" Griffin hesitated. "What, if I find that I don't have it in me to kill someone?"

Moses smiled. "Every person has it in him- or herself to kill someone under the right circumstances. If you find yourself in the wrong circumstances, say if you find yourself incapable of killing a twelve year old, should there be someone this young in the arena, then walk away and hope that the young kid does not have it in him or her either to kill you and that someone else will take care of the matter. You know that the arena is more than twenty-four tributes. The arena itself is a weapon the gamemakers can use to destroy tributes, and often enough there are also muttations."

"But it will not do to rely solely on the arena and the mutts. If I don't show that I'm willing and able to fight, the gamemakers might decide to take me out of the game. The boy from District Five a few years ago, I don't think the gamemakers counted on him to survive this long, buried under the stones. Ever since I have watched the Hunger Games, he was the only one who won without a single kill and somehow I think it was not how the gamemakers had planned this."

"True," Mo conceded. "But I don't doubt that should you find yourself face to face with a bloodthirsty Career you will have it in you to fight him and kill him given the opportunity. There is just one thing I ask of you: When you kill, do it swiftly and with mercy. No prolonging the pain of your enemy, no torturing. Not even if he killed your sweetheart or friend or ally. Not even when he has shown himself capable of torturing other tributes. You are better than that. Make it swift. Do not linger. Then you won't have to regret your actions. Killing in self-defence is one thing, but killing for the pain is a totally different thing. That would be like purposefully filling a motor of a vehicle with sugar-water."

Griffin grimaced at the picture.

"Analyze the tributes and find out by which system they operate. Analyze the arena and find the system there as well. Keep your head – and I know you have a good head on your shoulders – and kill swiftly and you will go far."

Indeed Griffin was already feeling much better after listening to Mo's advice. He was glad that his father was not the weepy kind. He was also glad that Moses tried hard to come up with good counsel since Griffin doubted he would receive much of that kind from the mentors. But one question remained: "How will I kill? I have no such skills."

Mr. Doyle grinned slightly. "Consider yourself a system and analyze yourself on the train ride and I'm pretty sure you will see just what your strengths are. Compare the weapons during training to the tools you know how to use in our garage and I'm sure you'll find something suitable." Not knowing what the arena would be like or what weapons would be available this was as concise advice as he could give. He just hoped it was enough to give Griffin back some of his self-confidence, because that in itself was also a strong weapon "And should you ever doubt your abilities, just take a look at this." He took a gleaming screw nut on a string from his pocket and fastened it around Griffin's neck.

His son smiled. "I could think of no better token."

* * *

 _Capitol – Maynard Trump_

Maynard enjoyed his life as private man. About ten years ago he had sold all his shares in the industries which had previously occupied most of his time, and he had not regretted it one moment. At first he had considered keeping just enough shares to force the new management to keep him informed of what was going on with the companies, but he realized ahead of time that then he would never be able to truly let go. So all of them were sold and they fetched him quite a good price. So much so that now he could indulge in expensive and eccentric hobbies without a care for money. This alone meant that he was so wealthy that by this virtue alone he held a certain power in the Capitol. And under normal circumstances, power in the Capitol was a double edged sword. It meant political influence and people seeking one's favour, while those who craved the political power or even held this power, were wary if not even a bit afraid of one while at the same time watching carefully like sharks for one to make a mistake. But Maynard had made it clear all his life that he was an economist, no politician. That he had no interest in political power whatsoever. True, economy and politics were never far apart, but Maynard had known perfectly how to behave to make it clear to everyone that politics was not his field. A strategy he still followed, although he still, unavoidably, came into contact with politicians. But then again, one never knew if one might not need a favour from a friend who dealt in politics. So Maynard made sure to donate to the right causes, to attend the right fund raisers, to attend the right parties should someone important invite him. By doing this and keeping his stance, he managed to avoid the scrutiny someone else with his wealth might have found himself under from the regime. It also helped that his main hobby was absolutely non-political: Vintage Cars.

These days he could not watch the Reaping ceremony of District 6 without thinking of his beloved collection of cars. Every year he went through the pain of the bureaucratic nightmare it meant for shipping his cars to District 6 to have them inspected. There was simply no garage at the Capitol which fulfilled Maynard's standards of a qualified garage, but he had found such a garage in District 6: Doyle's garage.

As the escort called out the name of Griffin Doyle, Maynard Trump could not but wonder if this boy was in any way affiliated to Doyle's garage.

When the directors at the studio once more turned the audience's attention to Caesar Flickerman, he knew that this question would not leave him at peace till he knew the answer. Luckily the Hunger Games information service was quick to update the official website with the publicly available information of the tributes. Within minutes Maynard knew that the boy's father was Moses Doyle and this name he knew from the inspection reports as the name of the owner of Doyle's garage. So while Doyle perhaps might not be so uncommon a surname, the combination of Moses and Doyle Maynard thought sufficiently uncommon to be certain that this year's District 6 tribute was indeed related to the garage which took so prodigious care of his vintage cars.

From that moment on it was a foregone conclusion for Maynard that he would sponsor the boy. Moses Doyle was listed as Griffin's only family, so should the boy die in the arena, it might very well mean the end of Doyle's garage. Either by a broken heart over the loss of the son or eventual old age would leave Maynard without a garage he trusted and this was something he wanted to prevent if possible. The sum alone he was unsure of, but this he would find out once Pancratius Serva had returned to the Capitol.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	9. Chapter 8 - Reaping District 5

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 8: Reaping – Innocence… lost (District 5)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"My dear audience, take a moment and close your eyes and listen to the quiet of your homes." As if to demonstrate to the people at home just how to do it, Caesar closed his own eyes. About ten seconds later he opened them again and asked: "But was your home really quiet? Was not the refrigerator in the kitchen humming? Was not the television giving off a little noise, though I was keeping all quiet myself? What you heard, my friends, was the silent – or not so silent – power of electricity. A power brought to us and the whole nation by District Five! Truly, without their efforts – like with all the efforts of the other districts – this Hunger Games season could not happen the way we are used to: With full broadcast of every minute detail. Don't we all love District Five for this! But don't forget about our split screen service as we now see the pictures of the tributes of District Nine leaving for the Capitol!"

Caesar was not sure, if anyone truly loved the district that enabled their leaders to torture them with way too many renditions of the History each year, but he truly loved his coffee machine and it would not work without electricity either. So he concluded that loved District 5 after all, even if not for the things he had just now claimed on screen.

* * *

 _District 5 – Alicia Quinn, 12 Years_

Alicia sat primly on the worn sofa in the living room, waiting for the rest of her family to be ready. She admired the lovely pale pink dress she was wearing and wished it was not so gruesome a reason that she was wearing it for: Reaping Day! At twelve years this would be her first Reaping Day and although her brothers had tried to assure her that she was as safe as could be, she could not help being afraid. Yes, she knew that with only a single slip in the huge bowl, which held more than a thousand slips, it was most unlikely that her name would be picked and yet…

Hearing her father hum to himself as he dressed in the adjoining bedroom, Alicia banished all thoughts of fear. If her father could hum without distress despite having all three children in the reaping today, then she could do her part and not act like a frightened rabbit.

Just then her father opened the door of the bedroom and called out to her: "Princess, if you are already done, could you please go and see where your mother is?"

"Last I've seen her she was heading for the clinic. I'll go and fetch her!" Alicia jumped up from her seat and dashed out of the house. She loved her mother's clinic. Of course it was no official hospital as such required a qualified and certified doctor, who then of course charged quite a lot for his formidable services. Mrs. Quinn was an apothecary and though her remedies – based on herbs, household remedies and common sense – were not for free, they were more affordable for the district's population in general than the services of the doctor. Consequently she was the first to be called in case of emergencies and over time had earned enough to build a small cottage which served as apothecary store, examination room and a room to keep patients over night if required. The locals all simply called it 'the clinic'.

Because the clinic was a safer place for children than her father's place of work in one of the battery charging power plants, all three Quinn-children had spent quite some time at the clinic when they were little or later after school, but it was Alicia who loved helping her mother with the patients and the herb garden. Especially the garden was her favourite. District 5 could easily compete for the ugliest district in all of Panem, with nearly every available place being used to generate power...

As Alicia ran down the street, she saw the seemingly endless fields of solar panels interspersed by the tall, sky-reaching wind-turbines. Behind her, she knew, were the actual power plants with their rotund cooling towers and the transformer stations which gave the air a constant hum. There was also the lingering scent of the huge biomass mountains, which had been collected through most of the year, only to be used in the weeks leading up to the Hunger Games as the power plants charged ever so many of the huge battery generators for the outer districts, since maintaining a national grid for power supply was simply not feasible.

No wonder that one tended to love the little parts of green such as a herbal garden.

Reaching the front door of the wooden building that was the clinic, she was about to take all three steps at once, when she remembered her mother's constant admonishments about ladylike behaviour and, more important, of not displaying any behaviour which might startle or frighten any patient. Moderating her pace, she climbed up the stairs and entered the storeroom. It was empty, but that was to be expected. "Mama?" she called out softly.

"In the backroom," she heard as reply.

With quick steps she joined her mother who was just finishing up the bandages of a splinted leg. One look at the sweaty face of the young man on the examination bed was enough to tell her that the leg was most likely broken.

"There you go," her mother said calmly, while Alicia hastened to wet a cloth so that the poor man could wipe away the sweat and feel a bit refreshed. "Be careful not to put any weight on the leg till the bones have knit properly. I will give you a tea to help with the pain for the night. As it will make you really sleepy, I advise you against taking it during the day… even if you will not be able to do much work, you will want to keep your mind busy and not sluggish. Perhaps you can work out a deal with the plant manager to help with the administrative work while you heal. It might not give you your regular wage, but it will be better than nothing," Mrs. Quinn told her patient.

Meanwhile Alicia had slipped outside into the garden where she quickly picked a few sprigs of lavender. Returning to the examination room, she handed it to the patient. "Here! Their scent helps to calm the mind before sleeping. So that you don't have too many nightmares." She smiled at him encouragingly and despite the pain of having had the bones set he could not help returning the smile.

"Right you are, my little one," Mrs. Quinn said as she joined the two with a small bag of mixed herbs. "Here. One teaspoon for one mug of hot water. Despite the outside temperatures, it's best if you drink the tea while hot or at least warm. It works better this way." She carefully tucked the bag into the man's shirt pocket. "And here is a pair of crutches. I'll call in your friends, but you'll want to be able to move a bit on your own while in your own home."

Suddenly seeing the pretty dress Alicia wore, the man groaned: "The Reaping Ceremony…"

The mother sadly shook her head. "I'm afraid your broken leg will not allow you to stay at home. Maybe one of your friends can run home and fetch a stool for you." With this she went outside where at the far end of the road a group of men stood, colleagues of the young man, who had brought him to the clinic when he tripped and fell down a steep set of stairs in the power plant. However, like many men, they could not deal well with seeing a friend in pain and had quickly left the clinic to wait till the worst was over. The screams of their friend while Mrs. Quinn had set his bones had still reached their ears and they were rather pale as they joined the apothecary.

"You may take him with you now. Though given the time, I'd say you'd better go straight to the square. Don't worry about appearance, attendance is more important and your friend will give you excuse enough for the lack of a clean shirt and a tie."

Not five minutes later mother and daughter locked up the clinic and hurried home.

"There you are," Mr. Quinn said relieved. "I feared Alicia got lost on her way."

"You mean lost in the garden," Anthony teased his little sister good-naturedly.

"As if," Alicia countered. "I never got lost in it ever since I was four years old. And back then I only got lost because you let me believe that the dandelions were sleep-dandelions."

"And you promptly fell asleep," her brother laughed in remembrance of this childhood trick.

"It was her naptime anyway," Jason, the eldest, interjected, diminishing his brother's triumph. "And I wouldn't tease the princess too much. Else she might add wild ginger to your food next time."

"Alicia is much too kind for that," Anthony said with conviction, but still he eyed his little sister with a mix of suspicion and reverence, stemming from the knowledge that she did indeed know more about medical plants than he did.

"Enough of this, children," the mother, who had quickly washed her face, hands and arms as well as brushing her hair, admonished. "It's time to head to the square."

Much too soon for Alicia's liking they had to separate as she was to join the other twelve year old girls and her brothers their sections among the boys. She so wished to be in Jason's position, seeing that it was the last time he had to attend the Reaping as participant. At least she was not alone with her fear and as she stood next to her peers she realized that quite a few of her classmates and friends were even in a worse position than herself. Not all were as lucky as she was, with both her parents earning good money and siblings old enough to work a little as well, so that she had never had to think about taking out tesserae much less follow through with the thought. Coriza next to her, she knew, had four slips to her name, after her mother died the previous winter while giving birth to a little baby boy. Alicia had been there with her mother to help as much as they could, but Coriza's mother had already been weak and the birthing had taken the last of her strength so that there was not enough left in her to fight the bleeding. Coriza's father had then started to drown his grief in alcohol, which meant that in order not to starve, Coriza had taken out tesserae. Her father had eventually ceased drinking, but the slips were there.

As the escort approached the first bowl, Alicia grasped Coriza's hand and prayed hard that it was not her friend's name.

It was not. It was her own.

"Alicia Quinn!"

She felt Coriza let go of her hand. She heard her brothers scream. She saw the bright yellow with which the escort had painted her lips. But she did not really feel, hear or see this. It was as if an impenetrable wall of dust surrounded her, dampening everything. Not knowing how, she realized that she had started walking up to the stage. It barely registered as the escort greeted her. She just turned around and faced the assembled district.

* * *

 _District 5 – Evan Harris, 16 Years_

"There you are, grandma," Evan said as he carefully placed a bowl of soup on the table next to the bed and then went to help his grandmother sit up. Taking up the spoon, he slowly began to feed the older woman, who patiently let her grandson care for her. Soon, too soon for Evan's liking, she signalled that she had had enough. With loving eyes and a weak voice she told him that she couldn't possibly eat more. Not on Reaping Day.

"Then you must promise me that you'll eat a whole lot more tonight when we have our celebration dinner," Evan bargained and his grandmother nodded with an indulgent smile.

"Now… you had better go. Or you will be running late."

A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him that his grandmother as always was right. Still, he hated to leave her. But then, he always hated it when he had to leave her, be it for school or for his job… At least he had the comfort of knowing that the deal he had with the Peacekeepers would keep them from coming after his grandmother for non-attendance of the Reaping. But really, ever since the apoplexy, the once vivacious woman was a mere shadow of herself. It had taken weeks if not months for her to get back her voice, but the nerves of arms and legs were too damaged for recovery. And since a wheel-chair was so far out of their financial range that they might as well have tried travelling to the moon, Evan had no real way of taking his grandmother to the square to attend the ceremony. But being raised by his grandmother, he had learned that there was always a way to work around certain rules and so had come up with his own solution.

Embracing his grandmother, he promised her to be back as soon as possible and then dashed out of the little house.

Their home was in one of the poorer areas of District 5, where the houses stood close to each other as if to lend each other support, yet rarely did the neighbours care for one another. Care for themselves took up most of the energy people had, so all there was, was a confusing array of back alleys and few streets, which even at the end of his three year tenure in the district a Peacekeeper hardly knew how to safely navigate. Consequently it was also the area of the district where the seedier professions thrived: prostitution, fencing, even black-mailing and murder could happen. As a result the children growing up in this area learned from the beginning to be on their watch, so it did not surprise Evan much, when a rough hand tried to drag him around a corner. Quickly dodging the hand, he spun around and shot the man a blazing glare.

"Calm down, honey, it's just me, old Luke," the man said with a leery grin. "I thought you might want to earn a little holiday extra." He showed his purse, some bills sticking out, showing that he meant business.

"Another time, Luke," Evan said politely, flashing the man a grin, not wanting to anger one of his regular customers. "But you know how nasty the Peacekeepers can be, when one does not keep one's appointments. And today the appointment means being present for the Reaping. Though tonight…" He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Unfortunately Luke was not in the mood to wait and pushed Evan rather roughly against the nearest wall. "Come on… there is plenty of time and I'll be quick." And he rubbed his pelvis against Evan to show him just how quick he would be.

The boy however knew better. One: There was not plenty of time, he was already running late and they both knew it, and Two: Luke was never quick, another thing they both knew. Quickly weighing the two options against each other, he knew that angering Luke was the lesser evil than facing the wrath of the Peacekeepers for failed attendance. In the least that would mean lashes, free rounds for the men and reprisals for his grandmother as well. Acting on this knowledge, he pushed his hand upward as fast and hard as he could, smashing effectively Luke's nose. As the older man howled in pain and cursed Evan with all the colourful vocabulary he possessed, Evan quickly freed himself from the man's grip and ran down the street.

At the last minute he signed in and joined his year mates, who gave him as wide a berth as if he were a year of himself. But he didn't care. He had long ago learned not to care. Just because the way he made a living did not rub well with the moral expectations of the others, did not mean that what he was doing was wrong. On the contrary, prostitution was legal in Panem and considered a job like every other job. It was even one of those jobs which were not assigned a special risk classification, which would have meant that a higher age than that of eligibility for tesserae was needed to do the job. Consequently children as young as twelve could become prostitutes. There was only one saving grace, which kept the children from being exploited in this way and that was that procuration was illegal. To be sure, it was difficult to prove procuration in a family, if the father or mother was acting as procurer, but there were certain inducements to report families which went against this law. Denunciation was a highly common occurrence and a very potent tool for the government because of the promised rewards of extra food or even money. Strangely denunciation was considered morally acceptable by most district citizens whereas prostitution was not, a hypocrisy which amused Evan to no end. Both served Panem in their own way, both helped to maintain peace and keep criminality rates low. Of course those moral denouncers did not want to see that without prostitutes the figures for rape would most likely be much higher… but that was the way it was.

As the History of Panem was recited, Evan marvelled at the fact how many things were left untold. Like the little rebellion of District 5 during the 34th Hunger Games. It seemed as if nobody outside of District 5 knew about it and even here people preferred to pretend that it had never happened. They wanted to forget. Yet Evan could not forget, even though he had not yet been born back then. But there had been too many consequences for his family to forget.

The summer of the 34th Hunger Games had been a long and hot one with almost no rain. And even if it rained, the ground was so parched that it barely made a difference. Rivers diminished and brooks dried up completely. People were dying from thirst. And yet, the government in the Capitol had decreed that all available water had to be used in the cooling towers of the power plants to ensure that there was enough electricity available for the broadcasting of the games. This decision had, not unsurprisingly, resulted in an insurgence, but the Capitol had sent Peacekeepers in before unseen numbers to the stricken district to put down the rebellion. Of course the Capitol had carried the day. But at least it had sent water along with the Peacekeepers, finally understanding that they would have no electricity generating population in the district if they all died from thirst. The leaders of the rebellion and their families were severely punished. Horatio Harris, the husband of Evan's grandmother, along with his in-laws was found guilty and executed. The rest of the family was facing The Disgrace, a punishment which meant that they were disqualified from meaningful employment for five generations. And in all this, they were expected to be grateful for not being avoxed.

While Evan's grandmother had indeed been grateful to be still alive, the situation was dire for her. She had just escaped the nightmare that was Reaping Day, had been newly married and now this. Added to this was the care of her two year old brother Niclo, who had been spared due to his age when their parents had been executed. How was she to keep them both alive if nobody wanted to give her work? Of course she knew that with The Disgrace she could not work for any of the companies which were forced to keep official lists of employees. But there were a multitude of other jobs, unofficial jobs, which would have allowed her to get by. However, with the rebellion being so recently squashed nobody was willing to take the risk by giving her work. So she eventually did the necessary to survive: She sold her body. Not as common prostitute, mind you, as she was still too proud for this. Besides most men who usually frequented prostitutes would have thought that The Disgrace carried over to this job as well and would have avoided her. No, she sold her body to a Peacekeeper, becoming his mistress in return for food and to a certain degree protection. And while he could not marry her, the Peacekeeper took care of her and her brother and the eventual child, a girl, Mari, which was born to the couple within a year – courtesy of not even the apothecary being willing to do business with Mrs. Harris and sell her contraceptive herbs. By the time his three years were up, Mrs. Harris' reputation had been ruined, but she was still alive, and though they could not officially employ her, the Peacekeepers allowed her to clean the barracks in return for food and other items. She was, after all, in a roundabout way, one of their own now. If she granted one of them additional favours, well, that was between the respective Peacekeeper and Mrs. Harris…

As illegitimate child of a Peacekeeper, the daughter suffered from taunts all her life, resulting in Mari growing up shy and frightened. Only in the company of her young uncle did she feel protected and the boy took his familial duty seriously. So while the family might not be happy, they survived and pinned their hope on the future. A not completely unrealistic hope, seeing that time helped with the fading of unforgiving memories and by the time Niclo was eligible for tesserae he was also able to get minor, unofficial jobs. The district was returning to a normal life.

All of this changed when the second quarter quell came around. Niclo, by then eighteen, was among those reaped to appear in the games which would see 47 children die. And while District 12 rejoiced at finally having a victor after so many years without one, Niclo died and with him Mari's protector. The very night of his death a group of the worst bullies saw fit to rape the fifteen year old girl, the daughter of a traitorous whore and a Peacekeeper, as they called her. Rape was rape and Mrs. Harris saw to it that the young men were brought to justice, but it did not change what had been done to her daughter. Mari was broken and never recovered from this. But she was also pregnant and her mother was determined to keep her daughter alive if only for the child. Mari eventually died giving birth to Evan and it was up to his grandmother to raise him.

As a child, Evan had never thought of becoming a prostitute. Though his grandmother had acquainted him from a very young age with the family's history and impressed on him, that there was nothing dishonourable with what she had done or what in fact the official prostitutes did, she wanted him to do better. Because prostitution did not nearly pay enough compared to the risk – violence against prostitutes was not uncommon. But two years ago his grandmother, always an active woman, had been felled by a stroke and though she survived, she could not work any longer. And while the apothecary had generously offered payment of the bill in small instalments, there were other outstanding bills among the merchants which usually were settled at the end of the month, but where the merchants now demanded almost instant payment. Adopting his grandmother's philosophy, Evan eventually did what was necessary. And prostitution paid better than being an errand boy. His grandmother accepted the decision, knowing there was little else to be done. Besides, she could hardly fault her grandson for doing what she herself had done.

"Whore! Come on, move your ass!" Someone hissed close to him, tearing Evan from his musings. "Time to get rid of you!" Another voice jeered.

Evan looked up at the stage and realized that he had completely missed the end of the History and the introduction of the victors and the escort. He had even missed the reaping of the little girl who stood forlornly on the stage.

"Evan Harris! Where are you dear? No need to be shy!" the escort cooed and Evan finally realized that he had also missed his own Reaping. Throwing one last glance at his so called peers who were calling him names in what they thought a subtle way – teenage boys rarely were subtle -, he walked up to the stage, his steps never faltering or slowing down. Somehow, some way, things had just irrevocably changed. And if it was up to Evan, they had changed for the better. By the time he reached the escort, he was even able to smile a little.

* * *

 _District 5 – Alicia Quinn, 12Y_

Alicia sat on the sofa, crying silently as her mother held her. Only now did she realize that despite a lingering fear she had believed her brothers' assurances that with just one slip she would be safe. But nobody truly ever was safe… not in Panem. Part of her felt an urge to scream and rant and accuse her brothers of lying, as if their words were the reason for her name having been picked. But even in her distress, Alicia knew that this was unreasonable thinking and that in accusing her brothers she would only make them feel guilty. But worst of all it would cause her to part from them on bitter terms and she did not want to die knowing that the last thing she did when with her family was quarrelling with her brothers. Instead she wanted to focus on more positive thoughts. Such as that she had to be glad that none of her brothers had been reaped alongside herself. She could not have stood the thought of her parents losing two children that day, much less the idea of having to go into an arena, where her own brother might have been forced to kill her. Not that she could imagine either of them killing her, but what if they got parted at the beginning and he might think her some other tribute and killed her with a long distance weapon before realizing it was his own sister? Or, only marginally better, what if some other tribute wounded her fatally, but that the wounds would be painful and her death slow and torturous and he had to kill her to spare her further pain? She knew it would break either of her brothers. It would break her as well. The thought of that vision alone had her cry all the harder.

Meanwhile Jason was venting the thoughts which Alicia herself had managed to keep to herself. "She should have been safe! She should not have been picked. She had only one slip, for Heaven's sake! And now she will have to go there without us there to protect her. She is only twelve! Twelve! And these monsters…"

At this point Mr. Quinn interrupted his son's tirade by putting his own hand over the son's mouth. "Hush!" he whispered harshly. "Remember where we are!" It would not do for any of the family to speak out against the government in the very building which in this district represented the government. Most likely the room was bugged in some way or the Peacekeeper guard outside was listening and his son certainly had not been quiet in his ranting.

The father's voice brought back some rational thought to Jason's mind, but he knew for the same reason that he could not continue his original sentence, he could not leave it hanging like that. "And these monsters… those Careers! Especially those from District Two are a nasty piece of work year after year!"

Mr. Quinn nodded approvingly. Better to rant at one of the Career Districts than the Capitol. And if his son's last sentences had lacked some of the original vehemence, it would be attributed to a momentary broken voice at the thought of his little sister's fate. Still, he had to try to calm down his eldest even more. "You'll never know… The youngest usually gain points of sympathy for their age. They often find useful allies who try to protect them. It's our nature to protect the young. Your sister will not be unprotected, I'm certain of it."

"You are right…" A calculating glint entered Jason's eyes. With a determined look he strove for the door. "And I will make sure that she will have protection secured even before she leaves the district." With this he left the room.

All was silent now, except for Alicia's sobs as she clung to her mother. Any diversion Jason had provided before was gone and soon enough the father's as well as Anthony's eyes were wet with tears. The family could not help but gather together in a large embrace, trying to lend strength to each other.

A knock on the door alerted them, that the allotted time was almost up. Only then did the parents realize that they had not brought anything as token for their daughter. They, too, had believed her to be safe. "Princess, I'm so sorry. It's my fault…" The father said while the mother searched her skirt pockets for any bit of herbs she might find there.

It was Anthony who eventually proffered a little white piece of plastic. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be a little toy hovercraft with which the boys had played when they had been little kids. "Ahem, it is not fitting, I know…" He said hesitatingly. "Jason and I each carried a small toy to give the other should we be reaped. It was Jason's favourite hovercraft… we always fought over it. But I'm sure he would want you to have it rather than go without a token at all."

The small plastic toy indeed elicited a little giggle from Alicia. She remembered the one time she had tried to play with her brothers when they were playing with their hovercraft miniatures and Peacekeeper action figures. She had insisted that the hovercraft was an ambulance hovercraft and that the Peacekeepers would not fight but would only go on rescue missions. Her brothers had not really agreed with this idea and had consequently excluded their sister from their plays after that, exclaiming that she was too young to know how to play properly. And not too long after that Alicia had found something better than toys to play with. She had found her place among the herbs and to help people get better.

She now took the plastic token and hugged Anthony hard. "Thank you, brother!"

Her parents also hugged her, then the Peacekeeper ushered them out.

Alone, Alicia began to worry again, especially since she had had no opportunity to hug Jason goodbye. When the door opened, she hopefully glanced up, but only saw Coriza.

"Hi," the other girl said with a mix of shyness and sadness in her voice.

Still toying with the plastic hovercraft Alicia returned the greeting. The two girls stared at each other, both lost for a moment at what to do. Eventually Coriza did the only thing that felt natural to her and gave Alicia a quick hug. "I'm going to miss you!" she whispered, then backed away. But just as Alicia thought she might leave, Coriza returned and embraced her another time, this time a lot harder than the first time. With a slightly mischievous smile she said: "This was from your brother. The guard would not let him come in again, saying that he had already been with you to bid you goodbye. Appears he forgot to hug you properly, so he commissioned me to hug you with all my might."

Alicia felt tears welling up in her eyes again. Now it was her turn to hug Coriza. Twice. "Please forward this hug to Jason." She giggled a bit at the image of her startled brother being hugged by his baby-sister's school friend.

"Alicia," Coriza hesitated, "I could not possibly do that. Go up to your brother and…"

"Oh yes you can!" Alicia now said with determination. "If I can go to the Capitol and be all dolled up before being tossed into a deadly arena to die, surely you can give my brother a hug. Besides, he will need someone to act like a little sister and annoy the daylight out of him or he might be impossible to be around."

Eventually Coriza agreed, then left.

* * *

 _District 5 – Evan Harris, 16Y_

Evan did not really expect anyone to come and bid him farewell. At least not in a caring way. He would not put it past some of his contemporaries to use this situation to try and further humiliate him. But if they tried, they would not succeed. The only one who really cared about him was his grandmother and while he was sorry that he could not bid her properly goodbye, he was glad that she had not been present in the square to see the boys' reaction to his being reaped. Much less any potential insults hurled at him when she was approached the room to tell him that all would be well, while knowing this would most likely never come to pass. He only hoped that whoever told her of his being reaped showed her a little kindness.

The door opened and a young man entered with a determined, yet furious look on his face.

'Ah, so the taunting has begun,' Evan thought to himself, gazing at the intruder with as calm a face as he could muster.

"Harris!" the young man almost bellowed.

Evan was slightly surprised to be addressed by name; he had expected a derogatory insult.

"My sister, you will protect her!" the intruder demanded.

Evan raised an eyebrow. He instantly comprehended that the other must be a brother of the little girl who had been reaped alongside himself. He truly was sorry for someone so young to be reaped, and he could sympathise with the agony her brother must feel. But truly, everyone knew that a twelve year old stood no chance. And were he to protect her, he would put himself into danger as well… Not that he had that good a chance to win, but his chances were certainly better than the girl's. "Why should I do this?" he asked calmly.

"Because I tell you. If you don't…" The young man took a few steps towards Evan, his whole demeanour one of threat.

"Then you'll do what? Beat me up? I'm afraid that the Peacekeepers will not look favourably upon someone trying to kill a tribute before the games." Evan stated. "And if you even went so far as to kill me, you know very well that the most probable outcome would be you taking my place in the arena. Then you might of course protect your sister, but do you really want to be pitched against her eventually? Or be a live witness to her being felled by a knife thrown by a Career?"

This had the young man's posture crumple down. Shoulders slumped, he looked as if all energy had suddenly been drained from him. He even looked outright confused as he eyed Evan. "How can you be so calm?" he eventually asked.

"My life is shit. Not all of it," Evan amended, thinking of his grandmother. "But most of it. I already live with the constant risk of being killed, something that goes with the job. So being at risk of being killed by another tribute will not make that much of a difference. But to me the games pose a chance. Winning would open so many possibilities. My very name means I can't get meaningful employment, but as victor I would not need to work. Perhaps as victor the stain of disgrace would even be removed so that future generations would fare better should I have children. And then there's my grandmother. As a victor I could afford proper care for her, even a wheelchair to allow her to leave the house. My chances are slim, I know that. But it's still a chance."

The other was quiet for a moment, taking in what Evan had said. Then he looked up and said: "All the more reason to take care of my sister."

Evan waited for him to elaborate.

"You asked why you should do it. Well, my sister will be useful for you. You know my mother is the district's apothecary?"

Evan nodded. Everybody in the district knew Mrs. Quinn.

"Well, my sister has been her assistant ever since she was five. By now she knows a lot about herbs and first aid and such…"

"Valuable skills indeed," Evan consented.

"So you will do it?"

"You know that despite the best intentions I might not be able to prevent her being killed. That, should we come this far, I would eventually put my life before hers?"

The young man swallowed. He knew that he could not expect Evan to sacrifice himself for Alicia. Not when Evan had so much to fight for. "I know," he said eventually. "But at least till then she would know that she is not facing this ordeal alone. That there's someone there for her. And if you have to kill her to win, please do it quickly so that she may die without pain or suffering."

Seeing his grandmother suffer every day, Evan could fully understand this last wish. He slowly nodded. "Very well, Quinn. I will do it. But I want you to do something in return for me."

The other looked at Evan apprehensively. "What would that be?"

"I want you to go to my grandmother and break to her the news that I was reaped. She is bedridden after a stroke, so could not attend the Reaping and while the neighbours would tell her, they will not do it gently. Most of them will mill around till we leave for the station, so will not have told her yet. Or worse, they will not tell her and grandma will find out when she watches the recaps. So will you do that for me? In exchange for my protecting your sister as well and as long as I can?"

The young man nodded. "Fair enough. Knowing my mother, once she learns about my errand, we will also be looking in on her during the games."

Evan gratefully gave him the directions and the young man bid him goodbye.

He was not left alone to ponder this surprising acquisition of an ally for long, when a familiar person clad in the customary uniform of a Peacekeeper entered.

"Harpax, what are you doing here?" Evan asked surprised. "Won't you get into trouble seeing me? Or at least provoke a lot of gossip?" Harpax was one of his regular customers, though not an ordinary one. Usually Evan's customers were more intent on having their sexual desires fulfilled, pay and leave. To them Evan was only a vessel, a means to an end. But Harpax actually respected the young man, treated him more like an equal, a man with a respectable job. He lived by a complicated moral code, which, as Evan had found out, was highly influenced by the moral standards of the Capitol. As such, Harpax had been most disturbed when after a few meetings he had found out that Evan had been barely fifteen at that time while he looked to be at least two years older than that. It had taken Evan a bit to make Harpax understand that part of his older looks was because his mind was older than his fifteen years. Family circumstances had seen to this. Harpax had eventually come to terms with this and had continued seeing Evan, though he insisted on not having sex with Evan again till the young man was actually sixteen years old. Instead he had used their meetings to give Evan a most peculiar training. So while most of the customers saw only a whore in Evan, Harpax had been slowly grooming him to become a courtesan. Indeed, just a few weeks before, the Peacekeeper had arranged for Evan to act as escort for the wife of one of the managers who had come to inspect his power plants in the district. And Evan had passed this 'exam' with flying colours. Yet despite all this, they had always been careful to keep their meetings as much a secret as possible so as not to risk Harpax' career, which could all too easily be destroyed by a narrow-minded, bigoted, spiteful colleague who sought to further his own career by maligning someone else's character. Peacekeepers were, after all, only humans. With all the faults humans were prone to.

"That's what pretexts are for. After the reaction of your peers at the Reaping, I told the guard that the commander had asked me to make sure that you remain unharmed."

"In this case you are a little late," Evan teased. "I already had someone here threatening me."

"But you seem to have handled the situation so well that not even the guard outside the door was alerted." The Peacekeeper retorted. "As for my real reason, well, I feel I owe it to you. I respect you, so it would have been dishonest not to say goodbye to you."

"Who knows, you might see me again," Evan said, though the lump in his throat which affected his voice, plainly showed that he was affected by Harpax' words.

"I might see you again, but you won't be the same person then. And you most certainly won't be working as a prostitute again." Harpax said lightly, knowing only too well that victors were changed forever by the arena. Harpax after all came from District 2; he had seen enough victors to be certain of that.

"True…"

"Do you have a token?" Harpax inquired, sensing that the time for parting was drawing near.

Evan shook his head. He had been in such a hurry that he had forgotten the little rag-doll, which had once belonged to his mother and which he had chosen as token when his grandmother had allowed him to choose an item from the family's memory box for his first Reaping. He was a bit sad about it, but he was determined that if he could not have the doll with him in the arena, it was perhaps better, because then his grandmother might hold on to the doll to give her strength while she cheered him on. The thought of his grandmother made him remember one other thing. He turned to Harpax, noting with a tiny glint of amusement that the Peacekeeper was apparently studying his uniform to see if he could subtly remove something and turn it into a token for Evan. "Harpax?" he addressed the man.

The Peacekeeper stopped his examination and looked at Evan.

"If you want me to take a token with me, let it be a promise. Promise me that should I die, you will see to it that my grandmother will not suffer. I'm the last family member she has and you know the neighbourhood…"

"Do you know what you are asking of me?" Harpax observed the young man closely. In veiled words he was asking him to kill his grandmother should the situation arise.

Evan nodded. "It's what she would want. Only that she can't achieve it on her own."

Harpax stood silent for a minute, then he nodded. He extended his hand for Evan to shake. "I promise."

* * *

 _Tribute Train District 5 – Avoxes_

The sleek train gleamed in the sunlight at the station. As of yet it was all calm and quiet about the train. The reporters were lounging in the station, watching the tributes being lead into the Justice Building on the large TV-screen provided for them, along with a small buffet of refreshments.

Yet the quietness was deceptive. Aboard the train about a dozen avoxes were busy getting the train ready for the ride back to the Capitol. Most people assumed that the many cameras installed around the area where the Reaping took place was to give the audience in the Capitol the best view of all the things going on during the ceremony, but the cameras had more purposes than that. One of their purposes was to gather biometric data on the tributes, data which was then transmitted to the train where the avoxes were waiting. One hour was all they had to change prefabricated clothes to fit the tributes perfectly and place them in the respective cabins.

As the set of data on the girl tribute arrived, a flurry of hand signing ensued. A twelve-year-old! Dismayed the avoxes looked at each other. Such a sweet looking young girl, too. Those were always the hardest to bear. And with barely disguised disgust at the Capitol for forcing children this young to play the Capitol's cruel games, they opened the closet which contained the smallest size of clothes.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. And to those of you who celebrate it: A Happy Christmas!


	10. Chapter 9 - Reaping District 4

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 9: Reaping – Plans thwarted… and not (District 4)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

Caesar knew his job well. He had to, or else he would not have kept the job for as long as he had. And right now his job meant making the audience not overly upset about the fact that a twelve-year-old had been reaped in District 5.

Twelve-year-olds were always a bit tricky. It was law versus social habits in this case. The law said that with twelve a person was no longer a child but a youth, along with the responsibilities as well as the freedoms that came with being a youth. It meant a youth was eligible for tesserae in the districts, as well as free to work, but also old enough to share in the responsibility of the crime that was the rebellion. Hence old enough for being reaped. In the Capitol, where more or less the same laws applied, including the fact that if they wanted, the children of the Capitolites could seek employment at the age of twelve, wealth allowed social habits to take greater importance. As such Capitolites tended to consider only those who could be called 'teens' as youths, and to them a twelve-year-old was a year shy of that label. Perhaps it would have been easier for the Capitolites to have youths from age thirteen to nineteen being reaped for the Hunger Games, but at nineteen the youths would have finished school and entered the workforce for real and the government did not want to reap full workers and thereby seriously impact an industry. So by theory all Capitolites knew this, but social habits were hard to shake off. At the same time, Caesar knew that once the tribute was all dolled up and presented at the parade, people would forget about age for the most part and just enjoy the spectacle, no longer thinking how it might be unfair to pitch a twelve-year-old against an eighteen-year-old. So all Caesar had to do was divert their attention until then.

"My dear friends, have you looked at the clock? And do you see the same thing I see? Yes? Yes!" he said enthusiastically. "It's time for a four o'clock snack. And what better to snack on than lovely tiny toast triangles topped with the food treasures of the sea! All courtesy to District Four, which we will now give our divided attention as of course you will also get to see the latest pictures from District Eight."

* * *

 _District 4 – Rufa Coley, 17 Years_

For the first time in possibly forever, Rufa felt real trepidation, when she woke up on the morning of Reaping Day. By habit she had woken early, despite the fact that today there were no classes to attend and for once she might really sleep in. Yet her mind was too active to allow her to slip back into Morpheus' embrace.

With a sigh, the seventeen-year-old girl got up. Perhaps she should go running, holiday or not. It might clear her mind. Quickly donning her training clothes and shoes, she slipped out of the house.

The sun was already making its way up in the sky, but it was still low enough to keep the air pleasantly cool. There was even a lingering light mist coming from the sea, though this would soon enough be expelled by the sun. Rufa inhaled the salty mist and could not help the smile which spread over her face. She just loved living by the sea. Yes, it was a hard life, even a dangerous one as the sea was never really predictable – it had after all claimed her own father –, but it also held a freedom that to her no other place in Panem could offer.

It did not take her long to reach the docks where quite a few boats were getting ready to head out for a quick turn of fishing before the holiday claimed them. Further out on the sea, Rufa could see that those at the docks were not the first boats to head out.

As she jogged past the harbour and out to the beach track, she found herself wondering how life working on such a ship would be. Was it something she would want to do, possibly for the rest of her life? She had only one more year in school left, and while she was lucky enough that her skills with the spear and her overall fitness allowed her to stay enrolled in the academy, she knew that the role of tribute for the Hunger Games was not hers. And even if by miracle the trainers and mentors would encourage her to volunteer, believing in her abilities, she was sure she did not want these honours. Yes, for years she had been training for a possible participation in the Hunger Games – all of course under the disguise of training for a District 4 job – and for years she had thought that there was nothing grander than representing her district as tribute. But as she matured she began to see the reality more clearly until truth had finally hit home the year before. Spears was her only class where she trained with those kids who would be encouraged to volunteer, so of course she had known Tamara, had even been something akin to friends with her. Then, last year, Tamara had been encouraged to volunteer and beaming with pride, her friend had mounted to the challenge. Rufa herself had been proud of her friend being chosen. And while it was rare that a district won two years in a row, it was not impossible. Rufa had had a lot of faith in Tamara. After all, theirs was a Career district, a district where the kids were trained properly for the games and therefore stood a better chance at winning.

Tamara had not come home. It had been her own district partner who had killed her as well as two other Careers in their sleep. And instead of being angry with Algy, Rufa had in that instant understood that even if District 4 was to have a new victor, it also meant that the second tribute of their district had to die. So even victory would mean death to a district.

Algernon had not won either. The girl from District 8, Cecilia, had won and for a few minutes Rufa had been relieved. She was not sure how she would have reacted had she had to face a victorious Algy. But the truth was that now she knew that the supposed honour of representing one's district was merely an illusion. An illusion she did not want to have forced upon her. So in a way it was good that she was not even good enough at spears to think that she might be kept as apprentice trainer, where she would then see that illusion foisted on the kids year after year. But it meant that for the upcoming year she would have to choose her courses carefully and finally choose a career outside of the academy.

Many of her former classmates had already made this decision. Either because their training performance had lead to the trainers encouraging them to seek field practice instead of academy training – which, despite the mild phrasing, resembled pretty much a dismissal from the academy –, or because they had reached the point Rufa was now facing earlier than she had. Perhaps she should check out meteorology next year…

But to get there she first had to make it through this day. And this was where the trepidation came back. There was always the slight risk that the trainee who had been encouraged to volunteer would in the last moment decide against it, leaving mostly a younger and possibly frightened reaped tribute to face the arena instead. This was what made the difference between District 4 and the other two Career districts. Here, the best of the graduation year were merely encouraged to volunteer, but the pressure put on them was nowhere near as high as it was in Districts 1 or 2. There, failing to volunteer when chosen was absolutely unthinkable. But District 4 lived by the philosophy that everyone should be able to make their own decisions and live by them. As such it had happened two years ago that all boys of the graduation class had already other plans, and nobody had held it against them. Even though it had meant that a fourteen-year-old had been sent to face the arena. Of course any other boy of any other year could have volunteered in his stead, but it was only the graduation class which received that special 'special' training. The training which took them out on the ships to wrestle with and kill the largest fish the people of District 4 dared to catch. Only the graduation class had this killing experience to guide them in the arena. Miraculously the young boy two years ago had won. The odds had been in his favour and Finnick Odair, with the help of their long-time mentor and first victor of the district, Mags, had been able to play all of his strengths at the best possible angle to make this miracle come true.

Now however Finnick was part of Rufa's problem. When he had shown up at the academy together with Mags about three weeks ago to see which of the students of the graduation year would be especially encouraged to volunteer, it had been safe to assume that this year Finnick would be one of the mentors. The government only allowed a maximum of two mentors per district to accompany the tributes to the Capitol and in District 4 it meant that the victors who would show up to scout at the training were the most likely mentors for the upcoming games. And while all students of the academy had a lot of faith in Mags' abilities, nobody of the older students really wanted to be mentored by a boy who would be younger than themselves, victor or not. From what Rufa had heard from her graduating classmates at spears every single one of them intended to refrain from volunteering, not willing to be mentored by someone younger than them. And the girl tribute by longstanding tradition in their district would be mentored by a male victor. Rufa was not sure how or when this tradition had developed, but the way the trainers reasoned it was to give each tribute an insight how the other gender would work in the arena. So this year there was a really high chance that whichever girl was reaped would actually face the arena. And at seventeen with a couple of tesserae from back when her mother had been ill that one year, Rufa knew that the odds might not be in her favour.

While the run had not allowed her to clear her mind, at least her body was sufficiently tired by the time she reached the cannery and turned back home to hide her trepidation. She could even enjoy the hot bath her mother had waiting for her, as well as the hearty breakfast and light lunch later. Finally it was time to put on their good clothes and head to the bay, a large stretch of beach, reaching further into the country than at any other part of the coastline, which was used as Reaping Field.

As they left the house they were joined by the neighbours who were heading in the same direction. Rufa was glad to see her mother in animated conversation with the neighbours; at times her mother tended to give in to the melancholia which had invaded her life the day Mr. Coley had died out on the sea.

Walking beside her fourteen-year-old sister Saffia Rufa was content to let the younger girl prattle on about one thing or another; she did not really listen. But then again, it was only understandable that Saffia should be so carefree… At fourteen and without tesserae, the odds were certainly in her favour, even if there was no girl-volunteer this year. Eventually however the constant repetition of the name Finnick Odair forced Rufa's attention and to her horror she finally understood that Saffia intended to volunteer. Because, as was the younger girl's logic, if Finnick could win at fourteen, so could every other person from their district. Plus, since she would have Finnick himself as mentor, there simply was no chance for things going wrong.

"Saffia!" Rufa cried out. All she wanted to do was grab her sister by the shoulders and shake her till the day was over, but this would not do. Not now, not in the growing crowd as they neared the bay. "Saffia, don't! You will die!"

"How can you say that? Finnick was just fourteen, like me, and he…"

"Yes," Rufa interrupted her, "I know, he won. But that was also by luck! He was lucky that the arena that year was a coastline. The type of area we know. So he had the advantage there. He also got lucky that his district partner got killed in the bloodbath by the Careers who perceived her to be a threat in light of the arena, while they thought him too young to be a threat to them. Yes, he was good with the nets and the trident he got sent, but Saffia, don't you see? In an open meadow, his skills with a trident would have him gotten nowhere. Tell me, honestly, do you think that Tamara or Algy were in any way weaker or less skilled than Finnick?"

The mention of last year's tributes had Saffia stop in her rash answer and she took a moment to consider Rufa's arguments. Finally she shook her head.

"I'll tell you what," continued Rufa, "Algernon was even better with a trident than Finnick. I sometimes saw him in class when we from the spears were waiting for our turn at the fish-targets. He never missed his target. He could handle the trident equally well with both hands. Finnick can only use the trident well with his strong hand. And yet… it was of no use to him in his arena. All mountains with lots of caves and trees… not trident territory, even with all the rivers and pools. So, what do you think chances are that this year we get a trident-friendly arena? Not that you are really skilled with tridents, sister dearest. So what do you think the chances are that we at least get a territory which gives District Four the advantage?"

From the shaken look on her sister's face, Rufa could tell that the truth was finally hitting home, that Saffia was finally understanding that volunteering at so young an age was absolutely not a good idea.

"Promise me that you won't volunteer!" Rufa pressed on.

Reluctantly Saffia nodded. "I promise," she said, clearly not happy to have the harsh truth presented to her when all she really wanted was to be close to Finnick Odair.

As they reached the counter to sign in, Rufa waited for a few friends of her year to catch up to her, while Saffia went ahead to join her own year-mates. When Rufa together with her friends however passed the group of fourteen-year-old girls she could see the excitement she had just extinguished in her own sister glow on several of the other girls' faces and she inwardly groaned. Her sister obviously was not the only one with such foolhardy notions of volunteering. And she knew her sister well enough to know that among her peers, it would not take long for Saffia to come to the conclusion that she should not abide by the promise she had just given Rufa; that her sister was just jealous because she, little Saffia, was going to be District 4's next tribute, victor, and possibly Finnick Odair's sweetheart. Yes, by the time the History of Panem began, Rufa was certain that her sister was going to volunteer.

Looking around her own peers, she saw that the determination not to volunteer this year was just the same as it had been yesterday during their final lunch break at the academy, and Rufa was sure that the eighteen-year-olds in front of her were much of the same opinion. Indeed, the telltale straight stance which gave away a volunteer was missing, nor was anyone trying to edge their way closer to the aisle to be in a better position to walk up to the stage.

No! Rufa could not let this happen. She might not be the best of her year, she might not have had the killing training, but she was certainly much better prepared than any of the fourteen-year-olds.

As the History came to a close and the escort was presented, Rufa steeled herself. With baited breath she waited, hoping that whichever name the escort picked was not one of the fourteen-year-old section.

"Milena Meyer!"

Rufa's heart fell as she saw a slender girl step into the aisle from right behind her sister. A fourteen-year-old? But no, a motion went through the girls in front of Saffia. Rufa immediately understood. Saffia had been standing in the last row of the fourteen-year-olds, Milena was in the first row of the thirteen-year-olds. A thirteen-year-old! And of course now all the fourteen-year-old girls were getting ready to volunteer.

Quickly jostling her way through her surprised peers, Rufa reached the edge of the aisle just as Milena Meyer walked by. Protocol demanded that she mount the stage and only then a volunteer could take her place, that was if the reaped tribute was willing to accept a volunteer. Rufa was relieved to see that at least the thirteen-year-olds seemed to have enough sense to fear the arena. Milena was not likely to refuse a volunteer. Carefully timing her own movements with that of the girl as she walked to the microphone, Rufa stepped into the aisle. "I volunteer!" she said with a strong voice, a conviction ringing in her words that made sure that no fourteen-year-old dared to contradict her.

* * *

 _District 4 – Connor Tobin, 18 Years_

Connor lay on the floor of the training hall and gazed up into the ropes which formed an intricate net. One wrong step and one tumbled and fell to the ground. Or got twisted in the ropes and dangled upside down for all to see, trapped by the course. But Connor knew this course well. He had had twelve years to master it, to become acquainted with every fibre of it. And it was without a doubt his favourite part of the whole training hall. None of the weapon stations could offer him what the ropes did: freedom. Often his trainers had chided him for being too daring among the ropes, but somehow, from the first moment he had laid eyes on it, he had known that his heart had found the place it belonged.

His mind travelled back to the day so many years ago when his parents had taken him to the harbour to see the annual performance of the graduation class of the academy. There were sparring matches where some of the students donned fish costumes while others wore the regular fishermen attire, there was a swimming competition and there was the rope act. Large, skyward reaching poles had been rigged to resemble the masts of sailing ships of old, and amidst the myriad of ropes – all a confusing chaos in the eyes of a five-year-old boy – graceful young men and women had climbed up and down as if they were merely walking up steps. They had even walked on the ropes, walking the sky, from one pole to the next. Others had dangled upside down, swinging almost lazily only to catch an item thrown at them and pass it on to the next one. That had been the moment Connor knew he wanted to attend the district's academy. No, not only attend, for every child in the first six years of school attended the academy as well as the regular classes, he also wanted to graduate from the academy. He wanted to stay there possibly forever, to become one of the sky walkers.

He had worked hard and had excelled in his classes, be it regular school or academy courses. Never once had a teacher given him 'the look' which meant that sooner or later he would be advised to seek further practice in an actual job. But at the same time, while Connor worked hard to retain the privilege of staying where his rope course was, the pressure had increased. The academy's goal, besides the official one of preparing the district's children for the jobs that awaited them upon graduation, was to prepare the kids as tributes for the Hunger Games. To win the games. To bring honour and plenty to the district.

Connor had gone through three different opinions about the games throughout the years. As a kid he had simply not cared about them. The games were something that happened to others, to the graduation class, but never to kids like him who had years and years and years before they would face that possibility. That had lasted for about the first six years. Then, as he turned twelve and realized that his name would indeed be in the Reaping Bowl and that he could face the arena should he be reaped and nobody volunteered for him, he became opposed to the games. Simply because the games had the power to take the rope course from him. Luckily his opposition did not cause him any trouble, since all kids usually became rebellious at this age. Not at the games in particular, but rebellious in general as part of the process of growing up. When he had turned fifteen, his point of view had shifted once more. Since he loved the rope course so much, he had been allowed to advance faster in this class and by then found himself training with the graduation class. There were eight boys and nine girls left in the graduation class. All others had either dropped out on their own free will or had been told by the trainers that it was time to gain practice with a real job. There were about another five who stayed at the academy to take the more theoretical classes on meteorology and desalination technology. But out of those seventeen eighteen-year-olds only one girl and one boy would get to volunteer. Only those two got to represent their district in the games. Only those two had a clear path ahead of what they would do upon graduation. And as he interacted with those boys and girls, Connor realized that the other fifteen, whoever they might be at the end of the year, had no idea what they would do with their lives after graduation.

It was then that he realized that the system of the academy, for all the advantages it offered the kids and the district as a whole, was flawed. It simply expected the majority of the graduation class to join their former classmates in working on the ships, on the docks, in the cannery and whatever else offered a job in the district and to forget about all the years they had been slowly brainwashed that they had a destiny to fulfil in terms of becoming Hunger Games tributes. There was no help in the transition, no help in weaning off those students from literally living and breathing the academy. Only a very few got offered the chance to become trainers at the academy, but most years most of the graduation class upon graduating were honestly and utterly lost in the reality that was life in District 4. Some of them managed to find a job, accept the reality, and live with it, but they usually were rather miserable. Some got lucky and found a significant other with more experience in the real life and pulled through with the help of that significant other. And some only wasted away, accepting odd jobs only to earn enough money to buy cheap liquor and get drunk. Those would be found one morning, lifeless, and altered so much by the alcohol that one never would have guessed that once they had been considered District 4's brightest hopes at winning the Hunger Games.

It was then that Connor decided two things. One: He would become the boy-tribute for his graduation class so that he did not have to face being lost. Even if it meant spending more times with weapons and less with his beloved ropes. Two: He would win and use his position as victor to help the lost ones. Because those lost ones were not without skills. There was just nothing the district currently offered them where they could use their skills. And yet, once every year the graduation class showed a skill nobody really acknowledged. They had the skill to entertain as was obvious by the crowds which gathered every year to watch the class' performance. So why not make performance, entertainment a job? And that was where the part of being victor came in. Usually any non-productive venue was not tolerated in the districts. But on the other hand every victor of the Hunger Games was expected to develop an artistic, a non-productive, a rather useless talent, now that they had so much money that they never needed to work again. And the talent was then presented to the Capitolites for their entertainment. So a victor had the power to become a performer, an entertainer as talent. And what if for a good performance, a good entertainment he had to recruit a few other people from the district to make it work? To give the Capitol the entertainment they craved?

Yet what had the past victors of District 4 done as talent? Each and every one of them had picked up sea shell decorating. They spent their days walking the beach to collect the shells and glue them to the walls of the official building such as the town hall, the Peacekeeper barracks, or the Justice Building. They created pictures, geometric designs, worked with the subtle shades of what the sea offered them. At least that was what the victors told the reporters for the TV-program. To Connor it was just a pathetic waste of time. Every child could glue random sea shells to a wall and call it an intricate design. Toying around with sea shells did nothing to help the district. And did not a victor have a certain responsibility to the district? He certainly would not neglect this responsibility; he would change the district for the better.

It was this he reminded himself of, as he lay on the floor and looked up into the ropes. In just about two hours he would volunteer – he smiled at the fact that none of his classmates would dare contest his claim to be this year's volunteer, the last training had ensured that –, he would win, and he would return to the ropes.

* * *

 _District 4 – Rufa Coley, 17Y_

"I hate you!" With these words, Saffia entered the room Rufa had been assigned and threw herself on the plush sofa to scowl darkly at her older sister.

Rufa huffed in annoyance, crossing her arms in front of her chest and turned to her mother. She did not have the time to deal with this. She did not even have the emotional strength to deal with this. She needed every shred of it to accept the reality that she had volunteered for something which would most likely kill her. After she had just this morning decided that she would face the truth that she was not that spectacular at the academy training and would focus on meteorology instead the upcoming year. Now there would most likely not be an upcoming year for her at all. Not when her own district partner was so much more prepared for this than she was. So she certainly could not deal with her sister being selfishly childish right now. Flatly she informed her mother, who had been watching her daughters with a worried and confused look: "Mama, Saffia wanted to volunteer herself. Because Finnick won at fourteen. And she is angry because I pre-empted her."

"What?" Mrs. Coley's face had gone from pale – the result of seeing her eldest volunteer without dropping even a hint in advance to her mother – to deadly white. But this lack of colour only lasted for a second or so, then it reversed to an angry dark red. Giving her older daughter a quick embrace, she then turned to her youngest. Given her flushed face, one would have expected her to yell at Saffia, but Mrs. Coley possessed a weapon far more effective than that: icy, dripping sarcasm in a frighteningly calm voice. "So, you are scowling, because your sister chose your life over hers? You are angry that you get to live another year? You claim to hate her because she is going to possibly die? Why, instead you should be happy to have found so nicely a way to get rid of your older sister and ensure that all your mother's attentions will henceforth be focussed on you, my dear. So, I do congratulate you for convincing your sister that you'd be so stupid to volunteer at fourteen while all the while you just wanted her out of the house. Clever plan, Saffia."

Rufa couldn't help but secretly smile at all the nonsense her mother was saying. But she knew that tactic all too well. She knew that to a stubborn teenager who was not willing to really listen it sounded all like the truth. She was just happy that in her own case it had only been a nightly swimming competition her mother had talked her out of a few years ago with this tactic.

Indeed, the tactic bore instant fruit as Saffia first stopped pouting, while still staring stoically ahead, but at each new sentiment was brought up, her face fell more and more until she wailed out: "This is not how it was! I did not want her to volunteer! I did not…" She faltered.

Rufa took pity on her sister and laid an arm over her shoulder. "Saffia? Did we not discuss it before the Reaping? Did you not agree that you were not really prepared for this? That Finnick was just lucky?"

"Then why did you volunteer?" Saffia countered. "You know it would have been much easier to convince me not to attempt this had you said that you wanted to volunteer. I would have been proud and…"

"Boasted?" Rufa shook her head, her red hair swaying softly. "But I did not intend to volunteer. I intended to pick meteorology as elective next year. But then I saw how all your friends and soon you were looking at each other, the excitement, the anticipation, especially when you espied Finnick on the stage. And I knew that none of the graduating girls intended to volunteer this year. I…" Her voice faltered. "I simply could not let you make such a stupid mistake. And even if you had kept your promise, had I allowed one of your friends to volunteer it would not have been much better. I would have always known that it could have been you in her place. I just could not." Tears were streaming down her face as she said that.

It was her mother who gave her comfort, drawing her into a soothing embrace. "Hush!" she said. "As sad as I am that you volunteered, I am also proud of you. In face of this, you did the right thing. You might have a chance, more chance than any of these harebrained girls. They have much to thank you for. And Saffia and I will make sure they know it. That they in turn will do everything in their power to prevent other classes of fourteen-year-olds to attempt the same mistake. Even if it means they volunteer when they least want it." With this Mrs. Coley reached for the head of her younger daughter to unclasp the barrette the girl was wearing in her hair. "Take this as token. Wear it in the arena and every time you are on the screen, the girls will know."

Next to her, Saffia was sobbing quietly. The loss of the barrette somehow had broken the last mental wall, making her understand that she was in all likelihood losing her sister as well. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…," she sniffed.

Rufa hugged her. "Don't cry. Hey, come on, we are Careers. Which means I'll get a few strong allies and who knows, maybe I get lucky with the arena and can navigate it better than my allies so that I can outwit them once the Career alliance is over and then I'll win and come back home. You know that I'm quite good at spears. It is perhaps the only reason they let me stay at the academy."

Saffia shook her head. "You are also good at running," she offered.

"Ah, see? And running is always helpful in the arena. Especially when I feel that the alliance is nearing its end, then I'll simply pack up some things and run away during the night. I'll be fine." She would be, Rufa knew somehow. She had to be. After all, she was a Career.

* * *

 _District 4 – Connor Tobin, 18Y_

Connor's parents entered the room, but they appeared to be at a loss at what to say. They had known that their son wanted to volunteer, they had tried to convince him against it, but it had been useless. They simply did not understand him, could not understand why he would risk his life in the games only to potentially become the Capitol's puppet rather than join his father on a fisher boat and have a nice, but most importantly free life.

Connor was equally at a loss at what to say. It was as if all words had already been said. He had tried to make his parents understand his views on the district and the flaws of the academy system, but in vain. If not for a similarity in looks between his father and himself, Connor might have come to believe that they were not related at all.

It was eventually his mother who broke the somewhat awkward silence. "Carla is pregnant. Myra told me just yesterday."

Connor was somewhat stunned by this inconsequential information. Carla was his cousin, about two years older than himself, had left the academy at the age of sixteen and had been working ever since in the fish market. As children they had been close, but well, lately they had each lived separate lives, too separate to do more than occasionally meet at family gatherings. So he had known that she was seeing someone on a somewhat regular basis, so ultimately the information that she was pregnant was not that surprising. But why would his mother bring up this topic right now?

"They want to have the wedding in late fall, when the hurricane season is over", his mother continued.

Another inconsequential information. All weddings in District 4 were scheduled to be outside the hurricane season, as weddings in District 4 usually involved the newly-wed couple to row around a certain cliff to show how well they work together and one never attempted this when a hurricane could all too easily end the married bliss by crashing the couple into the cliff.

"Although by then the pregnancy will surely show. Myra is quite concerned about the dress… Carla will not fit into her good dress anymore by then."

Ah, yes, Connor mused. No matter how dire circumstances are, women and dress were always two things to go together and always sure to cause the former some worries. However, he refrained from mentioning that once he won, they could simply order a pretty maternity dress from the Capitol as gift for Carla. For one, he had not yet won, and for two, he did not want to remind his parents of the games and risk his father making a last minute attempt to persuade him to not go through with his plans. It was too late for that, so it would be futile and just cost both sides too much energy for nothing.

"I just hope that the responsibility of wife and child will bring Marsten around," his father grunted, having obviously decided to join his wife's babble.

Connor secretly rolled his eyes. Marsten, Carla's future husband, was a prime example why he was volunteering. As second best of his year he did not get to volunteer four years ago and was ever since making his way with low paid jobs as day labourer. He had met Carla when he had been hired for that day to deliver the fish to the respective market stalls. It had been truly romantic… or not. Yet Marsten was so much more… Give the man a harpoon and he was a deadly force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately only few had the licenses for catching fish which required the use of harpoons such as whaling, so there were too few jobs for all those young people who left the academy with harpooning skills.

"Perhaps he could join you on the boat," Mrs. Tobin suggested.

Connor felt his mouth go dry. Here he was, ready to be shipped off to a deadly arena – by his own choice, yes, and he most certainly planned to return alive and victoriously – and his parents were already planning to replace him as his father's aid on the ship by his future cousin-in-law. Okay, he had never wanted to accompany his father on the boat, but still, it hurt to listen to his parents speak about a life he obviously was no longer part of.

"We could make it a wedding present…" Mr. Tobin mused.

Connor had had enough. Waiting a few moments longer he realized that his parents truly had gotten so immersed in the subject of his cousin, the wedding and the future that they no longer took notice of his presence, he slowly walked to the door and snuck outside.

"Back!" The Peacekeeper snarled.

Connor jus looked at him and said: "I won't run. I volunteered, right? I just want to get away from my parents."

"Too much hugging?" the Peacekeeper asked mildly annoyed.

"Nope. Too much ordinary life!"

* * *

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

Caesar was relieved. At least this Reaping had gone as planned. Career district, two volunteers, both looking capable, so no problems he'd have to skirt around when he made the next bridge.

"Marvellous as always, District Four!" he commended them. "And, my dear audience in front of the screens at home, did you notice the delicate decoration of the Justice Building? This, my dear friends, is sea shell decoration, done by District Four's dedicated victors. Every year I marvel at its beauty. And nothing reminds me more of vacations than these decorations. Speaking of vacations – should you not yet know where to spend your next vacations, our team from the commercial department will now supply you with a few suggestions."

Sunny pictures of wooded glens, sizzling deserts and snowy mountains flickered over the screens, interrupted occasionally by imposing edifice ruins. As varying as these impressions were, the message was always the same: Visit one of the past Hunger Games arenas. Relive those exciting days of your favourite victor. Become part of the re-enactment spectacles of bloodbath and final fight – with artificial blood of course and no injuries.

Caesar could easily identify each arena by year, but it was not till the 65th games arena came on the screen that he seriously contemplated booking a vacation there. All those beaches… might be a nice place to go for an escape with his wife. But then he recalled his children's request that they please visit the deathly laboratories as next vacations – the arena from the 48th games. His children were too young to have witnessed the games, but they were unfortunately old enough to think that laboratories with traps which could dump you into vessels full of deadly substances – now replaced by annoying goo – were ever so cool.

Well, those were the pleasures for being a family man.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. And a Happy New Year to you! May the odds be ever in your favour ;-)


	11. Chapter 10 - Reaping District 3

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 10: Reaping – Feeding mind and body (District 3)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"Welcome back!" Lifting a dainty cup to his lips Caesar Flickerman took a careful sip of the steaming hot liquid. "Perhaps you are like me, just enjoying a wonderful cup of coffee. And who do we have to thank for this? Well, District Eleven may come to mind, all right, but we already have seen the Reaping there. So, my dear audience, what next? Yes, right, District Three, the marvellous place which among other items of technology that make our lives so much better, also manufactures the coffee machines we have come to love so dearly. And I am equally sure that this year's tributes from District Three will be just as innovative as the technologies from that district. So let's join District Three! Though of course you'll also be able to follow up on District Seven's latest pictures with our beloved split screen." Another sip, followed by a cheerful grin and Caesar got the signal that the cameras were on District 3.

He smiled at the cup as he placed it on the studio's desk. It was good that the audience could not see the contents of his cup, because it contained nothing but water. For all his culinary passion, Caesar knew that he should not drink any coffee after four in the afternoon or he would have serious trouble sleeping at night. Of course for this he could just use one of the wonderful pills of their medical industries, but Caesar preferred to keep his mind clear. It was easier to survive in the shark basin the Capitol could be if one practiced a little moderation. Another benefit of this practiced moderation was that the caffeine in the coffee still worked well for him.

* * *

 _District 3 – Fancy Yeo, 17 Years_

An almost incredibly huge mountain of vegetables lay piled in the middle of the large worktable. Most people would have groaned at the thought of having to scrape, peel and cut that mound, but Fancy just whistled contentedly as she took up one item after the other and cut it into pieces just as her father had asked her to.

Today was Reaping Day and this meant that the street vendors with their mobile kitchens would be in even higher demand than they usually were. The usual picture of District 3 was one of large production halls, where the population in unison with the machines and part-robots worked in three shifts to manufacture all the technological gadgets the Capitol asked for, as well as basic contraptions for the district population of the nation that went by the name of Panem. A lot of the people worked more than one shift, leaving them precious little time to cook, so as a consequence the District's structure had changed from a more individualistic one formed by families to that of a larger community where all worked together. In the case of food it meant that some families eventually had begun to cook more food than just for their own and sold it to the workers at the factories. As it meant that the other workers could spend more time actually working in the factories and were still well fed, the government and the owners of the large factories had come to see this concept as a good one, going so far as to even subsidize it in that they allowed families with children to convert tesserae grain rations into vegetable rations at a grocery bank, from which the street vendors could get their supply for a decent price. And for Reaping Day the bosses even donated some meat for the general celebration.

Of course life as cooking street vendor was still hard, with long working hours, and the whole family having to pitch in, but to Fancy it also meant a bit of freedom. Yes, they were still dependent on the system, even on the goodwill of the bosses and the government, but as cook she was not a slave to the time clock like so many of her class-mates. When those, after school, hurried to the factories to spend hours at a workbench to place screws into gadgets in rapid succession, she would go home, see to it that her food cart was loaded and then set out to a certain gate at one of the factories where she would then prepare quick stir fries to sell, as well as the stew her mother and father would have prepared in advance. After the lunch sale, she would hurry home to help prepare the next load and then set off again to sell the evening meal. But she loved it. She loved the interaction she got with the other people from the district, the little chats with her regular customers. And most of all she loved the fact that once she got home and had her food cart cleaned, her work for the day was done. There was no night shift for her. Her father would see to the midnight meal for the night shift workers and her mother would see to the breakfast for the early shift. Yes, it meant that they all slept at different times, but still, her family got to see each other for the preparation slot for the evening meal, which was more than most families could boast of in the district. Often the parents left for work before their kids had to go to school, and with double shifts and even the children often working in the factories, once they reached the age of twelve, most families saw each other only in passing.

So even if Reaping Day came along with about triple the amount of food to prepare, Fancy still loved her life.

Next to her, her father was carefully cutting the meat. They had been particularly lucky this year, they had gotten some beef and even some fish from the grocery bank and all of it was really fresh. Not like a couple of years ago when all that was there was old, stinking fish. Rumour had it that one of the milling machines had broken down – from age and neglected maintenance according to the workers; because of wilful sabotage according to the factory owner – and that the owner, who happened to be the one whose turn it was to donate the meat for the reaping, had decided to take out his wrath by supplying only rotten food which should by right have been sent to District 5 to be used as biomass instead. When the street vendors had seen the spoilt fish, they had decided to teach this factory owner a lesson of their own. As such, when next this owner came for inspection, he was served the customary grand dinner, however, the cooks who had been invited to do the honour, had all used spoiled meat for the occasion. They had warned the mayor in advance, even going so far as to supply him with some coriander oil, so that he could eat the food without suffering from the food poisoning which was sure to come for the factory owner. And as the mayor considered himself one of the district's own population, he had wholeheartedly agreed with the plan and had even called the food delicious, despite the suspicious odour of some of the dishes. Yes, District 3 was in many ways different from the rest of the nation, taking care of their own problems, and by keeping a low profile otherwise were mostly left alone, which suited them fine.

Fancy marvelled at the surety with which her father handled the sharp knife, as he filleted the fish. She herself was no novice in handling the kitchen tools, but her father's skills were of a completely different league. It served as a constant reminder to her that no matter how good she was, she could still be better.

Eventually all vegetables were cut up and it was time to get ready for the Reaping Ceremony itself. Fancy checked her food cart one last time to make sure that especially the gas burner was in good condition – she had had to do some impromptu repair works just the other day and it would not do for her burner to die while she was trying to meet the demands of a hungry Reaping crowd – and then joined her parents as they walked to the large square. The square was the veritable centre of District 3. One side was dominated by the Justice Building, another marked the beginning of the factory area, with the large halls standing next to each other, followed by a side which led to neat rows of low storied apartment buildings whereas the last side opened up into the green area of the district with green lawns and shrubs and trees, dominated by the glittering glass complex of the invention centre, where all the new ideas were worked on and prototypes created. Many of the regular factory workers dreamed of maybe one day making their way to one of the shiny offices there. And if not they themselves, then at least their children.

On a usual day one could see people from all four sides coming and going, crossing the square to head in one direction or another, but today almost all of them came from the same direction – the housing area. Many of them greeted the Yeo family, knowing them and their food well.

Fancy practically beamed with pride every time one of the workers singled her out with particular praise, while her parents smiled indulgently but also proudly at their daughter. They were well aware that while Fancy might not yet have her father's skills with the knife, she already surpassed him when it came to seasoning the dishes to perfection. It was as if the girl could already taste the food in her mind and know in advance whether a certain dried herb or a pinch of salt perhaps would be just the thing.

As Fancy signed in and joined her year-mates she tried to stop the worry, which slowly began to bubble up in her stomach. At seventeen she belonged to the group which was second most likely to be reaped, considering that with the food system being as it was in their district, almost all children took out the same number of tesserae. Only a couple of kids with parents at the invention centre in second or third generation did not feel the need to keep up with the community's convention that all should take out one or two tesserae to keep the odds in balance and assure food for all – another point in which District 3 differed from other districts. But as always, Fancy knew well enough that even with the odds balanced, it took only a single slip in the bowl to get reaped. And as much of a community as District 3 was, theirs was not a district of volunteers. So, should her name be called, no matter how much people liked her cooking, she would have to face the arena.

* * *

 _District 3 – Tybor Rejewski, 14 Years_

By habit the first thing Tybor did upon waking up was to recite the multiplication table of 17 in his head. It was important to hone his mind in such simply mathematics, seeing that it was his weakest subject in school and what use was a future employee of the invention centre if he could make a decent enough rough calculation in his mind? He certainly had the logical skills and those told him that if he knew all the multiplication tables really by heart and all the basic formulas, he would easily see the patterns in the problems they were being presented in school and later at work. No, logic had never been his problem. Nor the technical drawing classes which had been added to the afternoon curriculum last year. In fact, he excelled in that latter subject. Even now he knew that this skill alone would raise him above the main working force which was assigned menial tasks. But it would only get him to the middle level in a factory, not above and certainly not into the invention centre. For this it needed more! And he owed it to his parents to reach this level. After all, they were working so hard to make sure that he could stay in school and take those extra classes in the afternoon which made all the difference ot which kind of job one could later look forward to. So, often he did not even get to see his parents the whole day long, simply because the double shifts they had that week were early and late shift and when they got home once the night shift had taken over, he was already in bed and his parents too tired themselves for anything other than sleep. When he had been younger, his parents had tried to get different shifts each, so that at least one of them was at home for him, but now that he was old enough to take care of himself, be at school in time and keep out of mischief, it was easier to sign up for the same shifts as then they could at least share breaks with each other. And depending on the shifts they had, Tybor would even join his parents for dinner at the factory.

But not so today, he realized with a sudden start. Today was Reaping Day! Which meant that the factories were closed and his parents at home! He thought of jumping out of bed and racing to the tiny, but separate bedroom of his parents to wish them a joyful morning, but on second thought he refrained from it. Just in time he had remembered that his parents were currently doing late and night shift, so waking them up now, no more than an hour after they had gone to bed, would not be a good idea.

Tybor sighed. At least Reaping was not till three thirty in the afternoon, so his parents could sleep in today. However, now that he was awake, he found that he could not go back to sleep himself. Sighing again, he pulled the hated math book over to his bed to study a bit before he would see if there was anything in the small and rarely used kitchen from which he could make breakfast for his parents and himself.

It was not before long that the figures and letters in his book gave way to a much more pleasant picture. One of lush green and glistening glass fronts and a house of his own with a small garden even. Tybor could see it, even smell and feel it, how he would walk the white tiled floors… so clean, even pristine… a far cry from the bare concrete floors of the workshops in the factories. And the light… Real sunlight on all floors, not only the top floor as it was in the factories. Tybor had heard rumours that in other districts there were at times power shortages, but this was never the case in District 3, not for the factories. There two thirds of the workshop areas were illuminated by a sickly, artificial yellow light. But in the invention centre with its huge glass fronts surely every office and every workplace was positively bathed in the fresh light of the sun! The thought of working there one day…

Tybor had seen the building so often from the outside that he was sure he could even navigate inside it without once losing his way. Barely a week passed that he did not feel the need to visit the Invention Park as he called the green lawns with the glass walled centre. It was a particular need every time he had had to write an exam in advanced mathematics, his most dreaded subject. So far he had always passed the exams, but every time he was a nervous wreck when he left the school building. Only a walk through the park could soothe his agitated state then. Soon, just a few more years, and he would be able to spend his breaks openly in the park instead of sneaking around and hoping not to be caught by one of the Peacekeepers who patrolled there to prevent the population from claiming the land to convert it into vegetable gardens or whatever… Really, sometimes Tybor did not even want to know what the government was thinking when they imposed such rules. As if anyone truly would want to convert the only beautiful place of the district into something as plain and ordinary as vegetable gardens. They had District 11 to produce vegetables!

A couple of hours later the whole family made their way to the square. His parents had been well pleased with the breakfast Tybor had managed from the meagre supplies they had had left at home, but the main and most important ingredient had been the time spent together anyway.

All too soon it was time for Tybor to part from his parents and join the other children of the district. "I'll see you for dinner," he said cheerfully.

The atmosphere among his year-mates was rather sombre. Not so much perhaps because of the upcoming Reaping, after all they were only fourteen years old and chances that one of the older boys would be picked as tribute were far higher, but because of the visible chasm that ran through their year. Theirs and the year in front of them showed it most plainly… the difference between scholars and workers… Working age in the district was twelve, same as in the other districts. But at twelve one would only get the lowest of low paying jobs, with barely a chance to ever truly rise above this station. So only the orphans and wards of the state and the children of the overly poor families began to work at the age of twelve. Most of them stayed on in school for the additional classes in the afternoon which qualified them for the better jobs. But as the years went on, more and more of them realized that they simply had not what it took to become a member of the invention centre and dropped out of the afternoon classes to work instead and earn some money. Or their families had agreed on the children only staying in school till they reached a certain qualification level. So in the lower years there were so few children working that old friendships from school still held on for the time being. Friends were loathe to let go of each other even if they no longer shared the afternoon together. Same it was with the upper years, where the growing interest in the other sex was enough to bridge the gap between workers and scholars, especially when there were so few scholars left. But usually by the age of fourteen and fifteen about half the year would be working while the other half would still attend school, forming groups large enough to stand for themselves. The workers would look down upon the scholars with the newfound importance of belonging to the part of the district's population who earned already money, while the others were mere schoolchildren in their eyes. The scholars in return would look down upon the workers with the superiority borrowed from any future job they would hold which would place them above the workers. The other sex was not yet interesting enough to bridge the gap and if one was interested in someone, the peer pressure was enough to ensure that one only looked among one's own group for someone 'suitable'. It was a time when even childhood friendships would break, the strain becoming too much. And the neat line of unoccupied space in the respective roped off areas bore testimony to this division.

Tybor looked over to the other half of boys of his year, searching for his onetime best friend Benvio. It had been only six months since Benvio had dropped out of the afternoon classes because his father had gotten ill and the family needed the extra income Benvio could earn, but to Tybor it felt like an eternity. Even during the morning classes Benvio now sat with the other workers and if Tybor saw him while having dinner with his parents at the factory, Benvio would only nod a short greeting but would not stop to exchange even a few words. Tybor missed his friend. And not just because Benvio was much better at mathematics than Tybor was and had sometimes helped him. He missed their jokes and sneaking through the park together.

So intent was Tybor on catching Benvio's eyes, that he nearly missed the beginning of the ceremony. But then again, it was only the History of Panem… time for Tybor to use his time better by reciting another multiplication table in his mind. Table of choice was this time 23. Once he had finished that he began reciting prime numbers as these ran on forever and he could easily stop when the real Reaping began.

He had just reached 977, when the escort walked over to the girls' bowl and called out a name he was vaguely familiar with: Fancy Yeo. He could not place it immediately, but when a girl from the seventeen year old section walked up to the stage he recognized her as one of the cooks manning the food carts at the factories.

Then it was time for the boys. Nervousness gripped them all as the escort unfolded the small piece of paper. "Tybor Rejewski!"

* * *

 _District 3 – Fancy Yeo, 17Y_

I can do this. I can do this. Fancy repeated over and over in her head. Only if she convinced herself first she might be able to convince the others that she could win this thing. And others included not only her escort and mentors, but also potential sponsors, the trainers and gamemakers and even the other tributes. Especially the latter. Not so much that they would instantly hunt her down as the biggest threat, but enough that they wouldn't hunt her because they thought her an easy target to swiftly bring the number down.

Her parents came into the room and hugged her fiercely. Her mother was crying openly while her father looked very much like he wanted to cry but thought it unmanly.

"It's okay, mom," Fancy said, brushing the tears from her mother's face. "In fact, I'm pretty sure that I have nearly as good a chance to win this as any of the Careers."

Her mother only sobbed harder at this, clearly doubting her daughter. But Fancy was determined.

"Surely they'll be in for a surprise this year. They notoriously tend to underestimate the other districts and even if they look at me, I'm pretty sure they'll have me pegged as another tech-kid, who is helpless without some pretty wires and some power source. But you and I, we know that I'm different from that. I know how to wield a knife. How many tech-kids can do that? Surely the years of training for cooking will give me an edge," she reasoned. "And I know how to fix the food cart, so I'm sure I can also improvise something from whatever material I'm given in the arena to work for my purpose. You'll see, I'll be doing fine."

While her mother eventually allowed herself to be calmed by these words, Mr. Yeo looked at his daughter sceptically. "Darling, I know your skills. And while I agree with you that you'll most likely do better than some poor kid from District Six, you are no Career. And that is a good thing. I am glad you lack the ruthlessness of those tributes from District Two or the arrogance of those from District One or the natural carelessness of those from District Four. But just listening to you, it feels like you share their overconfidence. Fancy, those kids, they are trained all their life to kill other kids. You were at most trained to kill vegetables."

This attempt at humour, even though it was a weak one, went not unnoticed by Fancy, who gave her father a small smile.

"But don't you see, papa, that killing vegetables as you call it, will just be that? I know how much force it takes to break through the skin of a tomato, but I also know how to handle fish or even meat. I am not saying that I'll act like a Career and go out to actively hunt the other tributes. But I will be hunted. And I will defend myself. With a knife. And I will survive because I know how to wield it. It will take the Careers by surprise. As for the training… pulling the food cart certainly has given me the muscles and the perseverance I'll need for the arena and as cook I also know how to use fire to my advantage. You will see!"

"Oh Fancy!" Unable to argue with his daughter, Mr. Yeo again engulfed her in his arms.

"You will see," Fancy reiterated. "I will make you proud."

"Darling, I'll already be proud of you if you just promise me to do your best. As long as you don't lose yourself inside the arena. Not like that girl from District Two five years ago who went so far as to rip out another tribute's throat with her bare teeth."

Fancy shuddered at the thought. It had been the first year she had been eligible for the Reaping and although she had been spared that year, she could not help thinking all the time during the mandatory watching of the games that it could have been her facing that brutal girl. For many weeks she had woken up screaming as her mind had dragged up the pictures over and over again in her dreams. "I promise, papa," was all she could say and she meant it. No matter what, she did not want to turn into such a beast.

Her father nodded, then pulled a small object out of his jacket pocket. "Here, take this with you to remind you of who you are."

He handed her the object which Fancy identified as an empty pepper tin.

"Spices make all the difference between just nourishment and proper food. And just like this, it's our soul which makes the difference between beast and human. Don't forget that."

* * *

 _District 3 – Tybor Rejewski, 14Y_

He had tried so hard not to cry, but the moment he was alone in the room in the Justice Building all dams broke. Tybor had always thought failing maths was his greatest fear, but this here was so much more… It was far graver, deadlier… He was going to die. And this alone was enough to keep the tears running down his face while his whole body shook. He had never been one to cry or sob out loudly, but it didn't mean his anguish was any less than that of anyone else. He didn't even care what everyone in Panem would think of him, when they later aired the pictures of him with a blotchy and teary face as he boarded the train. He would not pretend to be okay, because he was far from okay! And if this marked him as a cry-baby and easy target for the Careers, he didn't care either.

His parents came in, but he didn't notice them at first, so lost was he in his grief. Only when his mother put her arms around him and he instinctively turned in to her did he know their presence. Tybor felt like he never wanted to let go of his mother. But deep down he felt that this was not to be. So slowly he forced his tears to quiet down. Instinctively he knew that he did not want to waste the last minutes with his parents by only crying. He wanted to hear their voices and talk to them.

"I'm sorry," he eventually began, apologizing for his tears, his voice still broken and a little hoarse.

"Don't you dare," his father interrupted him. "There is nothing you have to be sorry for. Indeed, if anyone was to be sorry…."

A hand on his arm stayed Mr. Rejewski's words. Silently his wife shook her head. It would not do to draw further trouble onto their family by voicing thoughts in anger. Especially not in the government's own Justice Building. If they truly wanted to change something, perhaps even go so far as join the rebellion which was secretly biding its time in every district, as they had dreamed of when they were younger, before Tybor had been born, they would talk about it later. And certainly somewhere else.

"I still mean it," Mr. Rejewski said, focussing on his son again. "There is nothing you have to be sorry for. You were probably the best son these parents of yours could have asked for. So even if you go down in history as the first tribute from District Three to get zero points at the training scores, it matters not. We know your true worth. We know you have always tried your best and know you'll continue to do that till your last breath. That's all that matters. And we love you!"

A little overcome with his own emotions, Mr. Rejewski turned to the window, while Tybor allowed himself to be once more drawn into his mother's comforting arms.

Eventually the father joined the family again. He retrieved some shiny, clinking object from one of his pockets. "I had meant to give it to you tonight to occupy yourself while your mother and I dance the night away, knowing how little you care about dancing yourself." A glimmer of the teasing glint which usually marked Mr. Rejewski's humour crept back into his eyes. Tybor could not help but respond with a weak smile of his own. Dance the night away… Nobody in District 3 ever danced. But at the end of the feast following the Reaping, when everybody had finished eating, the working people would entertain themselves by entering in a friendly competition of describing with gestures the best failures of machinery, tools and other equipment encountered throughout the last year. A lot of this made no sense to the kids who did not yet work in the factories and had not seen such or similar failures first hand, but the grown-ups loved to laugh at the hilarious displays. Dancing had just become the concealing phrase for this sport, since it would not do to have the bosses suspect that their employees made fun of them, their policies, or their factories. Ever since Tybor had felt too old to simply sleep away much of this dancing, his father had provided him with some logic puzzle or other to solve while his parents made merry. This year it was a four piece metal construction, chained together and Tybor knew by just looking at the set-up that the pieces were supposed to be separated as solution, and then brought back together again.

"Take it as token," his father said and pressed the jingling pieces into Tybor's hand. His son hugged him gratefully.

A Peacekeeper signalled for his parents that it was time to leave and after a last round of hugs the family parted, with heavy hearts but settled minds.

Tybor tried very much to not start on the puzzle immediately, to keep it and make it last for the next couple of days, to give him comfort while he tried to sleep in foreign places, to take his mind off what lay ahead of him, so as to ensure himself at least some valuable night sleep, but the temptation was too great. Especially when he realized that his hour of goodbye was not yet up and that he'd have to wait some more till he would be taken from this room.

Folding the pieces over and trying to get a good look at the puzzle from all sides, he once more failed to notice that he had a visitor till he felt the sofa sagging next to him.

"Benvio!" he exclaimed delightedly, while he couldn't help feeling a short pang at his heart that it had taken being reaped for his friend to grace him with his presence again.

"Hey," came the hesitant reply. "See you got a new puzzle." With an awkward gesture Benvio nodded at the metal pieces in Tybor's hand.

Tybor nodded. "Token… since I'll now miss the dance." Not wanting his friend to feel worse than they both already felt, he quickly continued: "What about you, will you join the dance this year for the first time?" He wanted to let Benvio know that he understood his friend's decision, even if he was not fully reconciled with what it had meant for their friendship.

Benvio shook his head. "Half a year doing the lowest of low jobs will only allow me to show how to mishandle a broom." He grimaced, but being likewise determined to make an effort to maintain what little of comfortable atmosphere there was, he added: "At least it puts a little food on our table, even if it does not yet allow us to buy the medicine father would need."

"I'm sure you'll get promoted soon. You are clever. Most likely you just got into broom division because you started in the middle of the year," Tybor said encouragingly.

Benvio nodded.

There was a moment of silence between them, awkwardness trying again to creep up on them.

"Listen," Benvio said, "I'm sorry that it was you… I know I was a wretched friend those last months… but… well, I…"

"I know," Tybor said quietly. "You had to try and get along with those who could otherwise make your time at work a living nightmare."

"Still, it did not feel right to completely ignore you like this. And I missed our walks through the park… our dreams… Somehow it felt good to know that you still had those, that you still took those walks…"

"Then start doing it again," Tybor said with a new maturity in his voice. "Those dreams, they might be dead, just as dead as I'll be in a few days most likely. Well, I could always hope that twenty-three of them are stupid enough to get blown up before the opening minute is up, but I dare not count on that."

"You always had a wretched sense of humour." Benvio shook his head, but Tybor just shot him an unrepentant smile.

"What I meant to say is: The park is still there. So even if you are tired after work, take the time and walk there. You'll feel better, you'll see. And who knows, maybe I'll be able to come back as a ghost and then I'll haunt the park and you won't be alone."

Benvio nodded, all the while knowing that ghost or not, Tybor's spirit would forever haunt the park. At least to him. But he also knew that he owed it to his friend to go for a walk in the park, even if he was dead tired after work.

* * *

 _Capitol – Francis Leblanc_

As he aimed his camera on Caesar Flickerman and listened to another inane blather the host tortured the audience with, Francis recalled last year's tributes from District 3. Especially the boy had been a pure terror to him. Fifteen, tech-kid… and so close to having Francis kick him from the studio, not caring for the fancy suit the boy had been wearing for the interview. But really, it was not any tribute's place to lecture him, the camera man, about the correct handling of his working equipment. If he used some cling-wrap for better grip on the sensitive handle with which to adjust the camera's angle, then this was something based on experience, something no factory-kid would ever have. They might manufacture those cameras, but they did not handle them. Which was why they were the tributes and he was the camera man. And if he used a certain filter to enhance a certain feature about Caesar and soften another, then he was doing this out of love for his job which was to make his boss – Caesar – appear in the best possible way. Even if it meant making the tributes look a little less than perfect. But didn't the kid understand, when he pointed out that the particular filter Francis had been using would make the girl tribute from District 1 look like she was wearing puke instead of puce, that tributes were replaceable? That just the next year there would be twenty-four new tributes, but that Caesar Flickerman would still be there? So making Caesar look good had certainly priority.

So really, Francis hoped with all his might that this year the tributes from District 3 were better behaved, even if the boy looked suspiciously like a tech-kid.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	12. Chapter 11 - Reaping District 2

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 11: Reaping – Naïve, determined, invincible? (District 2)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

Slowly Caesar was getting tired. It was the same thing over and over again. Yes, it was his job to announce each and every district, to awaken the interest of the audience every time they switched to a new district, to give each district its due. And yet, five hours of paying attention, making sure he never missed his cue, he was glad that it was only two more districts to go. At least the audience would not need much rousing now since the last two districts were the general Capitol's population's favourites. Caesar himself did not share this view. But that was perhaps because to him today's tributes were more than fighters in the arena. Yes, those who would be chosen in the upcoming two Reapings were in all likelihood good fighters and the audience already loved them for this as they guaranteed interesting games. But they were little else. They had little true personality. Personality had been long given way to training at how best to kill others. That's why they always used the same angles in terms of presentation for the Captiol. Ruthless or charming for the boys, depending on the looks, ruthless or sexy for the girls – again depending on the looks. They were like puppets on a string to Caesar. Yank one string to get this answer, yank another to get another answer. And once they won, they could only add arrogance to their repertoire. And yet Caesar knew well enough that their arrogance was merely a mask, a protection as else they would expose their true weakness to the world. Like the nightmares… the longing for their parents' comforting embrace… the fear for another sibling following their footsteps. And they were right to wear such a mask. Nobody but Caesar would appreciate it if they showed their true personalities this way. They were Careers. The audience wanted them to be strong. But it was all so fake and hollow. And it made Caesar prefer so much working with the shy kid from District 9 or the obnoxious kid from District 3 or even the rebellious kid from District 11. They were less easy to calculate in their reactions and so much more of a challenge. And it was this challenge which had Caesar prefer the other districts to those he had now to announce. But announce them he must.

Knowing the camera on him, he donned his customary smile, reminding him that at least this day's work was almost done and greeted the audience once more. "And now, finally – as many of you think, I'm sure – we will turn our focus to the district whose tributes are often as hard as the granite quarried there, tributes as loyal to the cause as the Peacekeepers trained in this wonderful district. Stay tuned to see the latest pictures of District Six thanks to our split screen service and right after this we will answer the question: Who will volunteer this year as District Two's tributes!"

* * *

 _District 2 – Abelia Shale, 18 Years_

Abelia was awake with the first light of the day. This day was far too special for her to sleep it away. It was as if her whole body hummed with excitement at what was to come, despite the fact that it was hours and hours before the Reaping Ceremony would actually take place.

Unable to stay quietly in her bed any longer, Abelia got up and got dressed. Her fingers caressed the soft fabric of her Reaping dress, but she would wait to don that one till after lunch. It would not do to spoil it by spilling food on it. But even as she slipped into the simply shirt and comfortable training trousers she usually wore around the house, she could not escape the sensation of feeling every thread of the fabric. And what was more, her mind instantly presented her with a multitude of uses should need arise on how to convert these clothes into something useful. Bandages, tinder, bags in which to gather food, even rope material… As she made her bed her mind reminded her of all the material she could use instead of a blanket to keep her body from becoming too cold during the night. Every ordinary item she encountered in the house was instantly converted or substituted. And every such thought showed her that she was ready for those games she would volunteer for today. True, she might not be the most skilled in shelter building, fire making, food identification or first aid. But she had solid knowledge in all those areas, knowledge she would soon enough need in the arena besides the customary weapon and athletic skills. She still remembered the day she had realized how destructive the focus on weapons at the training in school could be.

 _She had dawdled on purpose after the training, taking her sweet time at the showers and in the locker room. Though the sports teachers, as their trainers were officially called, made sure that the students left the facilities in a timely manner on a day like this, where the scouts – as the victors were called on such occasions – would come to review the students' training results, she had managed to hide in the shadows and escape the teachers' notice. Abelia felt jubilant. She would be the first to know if someone from their school would be picked as this year's volunteer for District 2. Of course there were no picked volunteers by the district – officially. And as such often more than one candidate volunteered at the Reaping, turning the selection into a lengthy and sometimes messy procedure. But every year the victors, who would then go on to mentor the tribute, would try their best to keep the selection as quick and clean as possible. Either by identifying the outstanding tribute that would emerge victorious at the end of the selection anyway or by sending strong enough signals to potential volunteers to discourage them sufficiently to not mess with their choice. At sixteen, Abelia knew she herself stood no chance at being chosen, simply because she was rarely among the first three in any of the athletic or weapon classes, but she knew she could at least give her standing among her peers a boost if she was in possession of delightful news such as a schoolmate being chosen as volunteer._

 _Keeping to the shadows – indeed stealth was perhaps her only class where she ranked as first among the girls – she crept along the corridor in hopes to catch some of the conversation between the principal and the scouts. Rounding a corner, she perceived just that group coming up the very corridor she had been about to enter. Hastily she retreated, looking for a place where she might overhear them best as they passed her. A broom closet offered the only option and Abelia just prayed that she did not accidentally upset the equipment inside as she slowly sneaked beyond the door. Keeping the door slightly ajar, she strained her ears as the first flickers of conversation drifted up the corridor._

" _You'll not be disappointed in your choice of Romeo Carmichael," the principal gushed. "First of his year in thirteen disciplines, and second in three more."_

 _Abelia had not really been surprised to hear that Romeo had been chosen, though personally she thought him a rather arrogant windbag. But he was really good when it came to sword fighting and he was good looking… which might him get quite a number of sponsors. So all things considered it was a rather obvious choice._

" _Still, that's only sixteen disciplines," came the clipped tones of one of the scouts in reply of the principal's praise. "His record is sadly lacking results in another eight disciplines."_

 _By now the group was near enough for Abelia to see that the person speaking so dismissively of Romeo's results was none other than the old victor Lyme. Accompanying her was Enobaria, District 2's latest victor._

" _Minor disciplines," the principal in turn dismissed the argument. "Why should the boy know about edible insects when as Career he'll have access to the supplies of the Cornucopia?"_

" _Have you ever watched the games till the end? And did you notice just how many supp…"_

 _The voices died away as the group had passed Abelia's hiding place. But the girl knew better than to move just yet. Instead she let the last words of the exchange replay in her mind. She had not heard the end of Lyme's last sentence, but she was pretty sure that she had asked the principal just how many supplies the Careers had left in the end. It was a question Abelia had never asked herself, having shared the opinion of the principal that a Career had always access to the supplies provided by the gamemakers. But was that really the case?_

As a result of the information she had gained by eavesdropping, Abelia had watched as many of the games as she could over the course of the next few months under the cover of making it a special school project. And all too soon she had realized what Lyme had been hinting at. In nearly all games there came the point where the supplies were depleted, or worse, where some other tributes had managed to destroy them to weaken the Career alliance. It had not taken much thinking to understand that then the mentors of the Career tributes were in the same position as all the other mentors: They had to use sponsor money to get their tributes food or medicine. And that then knowledge in first aid or identifying edible plants could well make a difference in terms of how long one lasted in the arena. Even if as Careers they had more sponsors than the other districts, their sponsor money was limited and trying to stretch it too thin to cover both food and medicine could well mean the end.

Armed with this new understanding Abelia had then evaluated her own position and had come to the conclusion that perhaps someone like Lyme was willing to give a student a chance as volunteer who did not force a mentor's hand in such a way. That Lyme might pick someone who did well in her classes though was not top in every class, but at the same time had solid knowledge in survival. Accepting that she would never be able to beat some of her classmates in several disciplines to make it to the top and be picked as volunteer in her last Reaping year in the traditional way, Abelia had decided to change her training approach and add survival classes.

Of course a lot of her peers had scoffed at her, had ridiculed her, but she had persevered. And now she knew that her strategy had proven correct. Lyme had picked her as girl volunteer, despite her sad performance at fencing and mediocre skills with the spears. Archery, throwing knives, running and climbing, stealth of course, and all her survival skills had placed her above her rivals in the old victor's eyes.

Abelia smirked as she sat down for breakfast when she remembered the incredulous look Ophelia, a neighbour and her greatest rival, had worn, when Lyme had walked down their street the week before, but instead of turning into the path leading through the front yard up to Ophelia's home, had walked on till she had reached the Shale's home. Ophelia had been top in ten classes and second in another four classes, putting her on top of her year in their school, if not the whole district – or so she had thought. But hers were all martial or athletic classes. Abelia's scores were top in twelve classes plus another two where she was second and solid knowledge in the remaining disciplines. Perhaps it was not fair, seeing that there had not really been any competition in the survival classes, but that was hardly Abelia's fault.

Abelia still smirked several hours later as she walked up to the registration and proudly signed in her name. As she passed the sixteen year old girls in their roped off area, she wondered if among them was one who had perhaps listened in onto the undoubtedly heated discussion Lyme had had with the principal over the choice of Abelia as volunteer and had drawn the proper conclusions. Because Abelia knew all too well that the principal would have favoured Ophelia. Yet picking the volunteer was the scouts' decision as they were the ones who'd have to mentor them, and Lyme as successful mentor was held in high enough respect that Abelia did not worry much about someone else volunteering alongside herself.

As she reached the area for the eighteen year old girls, Abelia found that quite a few of her class mates shunned her, obviously thinking that by right it should have been Ophelia who was given the privilege of volunteering. And as more and more of the girls from the outlying towns arrived, the 'unfair rigging' of this year's volunteer choosing spread like a barely contained wildfire. But Abelia did not care. She had succeeded, she had been chosen, that was all that counted. Aside, of course, from doing well in the games… Something she fully intended to do. Too bad for her peers that by the time they realized that they had been wrong and Abelia right regarding survival classes it was too late for them to change their strategies. They would never again have the chance to shine as tribute for District 2.

* * *

 _District 2 – Marinus Bolen, 18 Years_

Were the bus to stop now, Marinus would almost stumble out of the bus in his haste to leave the damned vehicle. He so hated bus rides. No, that was not right. It was not bus rides per se he hated, just rides where luck would have it that he was seated right above the wheels. It made the bumpy ride more bumpy, the vibrations shoot right through his body in multiplied force and all in all had his stomach lurch so much that more than once he felt as if his lunch was about to come up again. Indeed he had looked so sick and pale that one of the thirteen year olds from the row behind had asked if he was okay. So he now had to battle the added humiliation as well. He could only surmise what the youngster had thought of him. He had certainly heard them whisper and giggle. Given his luck today, they thought he was completely messed up and scared to bits at the prospect of being the chosen volunteer for this year's games. As if! If anything he was looking forward to the games as it would finally give him new competition.

Marinus knew he had always been competitive. It was not so much that he was in for the win, but he wanted to be the best. He wanted to train and work till he could beat the best. It was what he had always done. First it had been the kids in the neighbourhood, racing them when they were little. Then, at school, there had been further opportunities, more subjects for competition. And while he liked some better than others, he had been determined to master them all and beat his opponents. He had even tried out the survival classes, but had quickly become bored since there had been no competition in those classes. So now, at eighteen, he had simply outstripped his classmates and that left him without competition at school and perhaps at an even larger level of life. He was bored.

So, no, Marinus was not scared about entering the Hunger Games. He could of course have cleared up any misunderstanding the youngsters might have had about him and demanded they change seat with him. As chosen volunteer they would not have hesitated to fulfil his wish. Perhaps they would have even bragged about it later to their peers about how the volunteer had spoken to them and exchanged seats with them… But if he was to volunteer, if he was to enter the Hunger Games, then certainly he could maintain control over his stomach for a one-hour bus ride!

To take his mind off his stomach he focussed his eyes on the landscape passing outside the bus. Sure enough, the view of District 2 was perhaps not something one would classically call beautiful, but to Marinus it was home. Besides, he had learnt to see the subtle beauty beneath the scars worked into the mountains by the quarries. Barely a surface in their district was untouched by the district's main industry of granite production. Where it was not the quarries themselves, it was the huge sawmills which processed the stone into customized sizes. Or the roads from the quarries to the mills and then further off to the factories or the station for them to be transported to other districts, mostly District 1. Even the buildings in District 2 seemed to have taken on the permanent grey of the granite. But Marinus knew that grey was not simply grey. There were dark and light shades, the dark ones could be almost black and the light ones even white. However, only those who worked with the stones ever knew the full range of colours… the subtle shades of red and pink, the green and blue… If one took a close look, one could even see those colours in the dust which had settled seemingly everywhere.

Marinus' father worked as blaster in one of the quarries, so he knew about the colours. After all, it would not do to blast away all the blue if the customer expected blue in their slab of granite. Marinus had been very young when his father had told him all about those colours. Back, when he had not yet entered school. Back, when they both had still believed that Marinus would follow in his father's footsteps. The years might have changed his destiny, but Marinus had never forgotten about the subtle beauty of the granite.

As the bus sped along, Marinus wondered how life would have been, had he not excelled in school that much, had not been encouraged to train even harder and now to volunteer… if one day his teachers had come up to him and taken him aside to talk with him about focussing more on training with weights and in school to focus on physics to prepare him for a life in the quarries. Indeed, till he had been thirteen, he had always feared that this would happen. Yes, he had known that he was doing well in school and in the training. But he had never been sure if this was enough. Till the year Enobaria had been chosen as girl tribute and had won the games. Marinus was not sure if Enobaria remembered him, but he would never forget the short encounter they had had the day the 'scouts' were scheduled to visit. It usually was also the time the teachers had their talks with the less promising students. He had been a bundle of nerves and the slender eighteen year old girl had teased him that he was as tense as if he were to be chosen as volunteer. He had confided in her and her reply had forever erased that fear: "Send you to the quarries? Tough chance, little one. I've seen you in training and judging from this the trainers could blindfold you and tie a weight around your ankles and you'd still outstrip your classmates. You are too good to send to the quarries." As relieved as he had been about not being demoted to work training because he loved the all round training the potential tributes were offered, he had also been a bit sad since now he would never follow in his father's footsteps.

For a fleeting second the thought crossed Marinus' mind, that all he had to do in order to follow in his father's footsteps and become a blaster at the quarries was simply not to volunteer today. But as soon as the thought had popped up in his mind, it had vanished again, because it was a ridiculous thought. Tribute was what he wanted to be! There was no higher honour in the district than to be offered the chance to become the next victor of District 2. An honour he had worked for so hard, too hard to throw it now away.

But… had not all the others worked equally hard? His classmates? Though they could never beat him, they had not given up… Why? Had they hoped that he would miraculously break a leg or in a moment of insanity decline the honour and they would get a chance to substitute? Still, even then only one would have been selected… And the rest?

Most likely they would now become peacekeepers.

Just then the bus sped past the largest of the PTAs of Panem, the Peacekeeper Training Academies. There were smaller ones in other districts, District 1 for example and District 4, but also District 10… not in District 11. The government apparently had tried to establish one there, but those stupid rebels had always burned it down. Now they had to live with the consequence – none of the preferential treatment which usually went along with having a PTA in the district, but the largest number of peacekeepers stationed to keep an eye on the population. Of course it was not openly propagated that having a PTA brought certain advantages with it, it was more subtle – like the colours of granite –, but the advantages were there. It began with the infrastructure of the district to ensure the PTA was able to train at best efficiency. And better infrastructure meant that the regular district allocations reached the district and the district's towns in better time. So if winter was approaching and they were to receive fuel, good roads ensured they actually got it before the first snow. A PTA also received a larger quantity of food than was usually allocated to a town. And if they had left-overs, the PTAs were allowed to sell and/or share it with the local population, to ensure the goodwill of their neighbours. To interest their children in perhaps becoming a peacekeeper one day. District 2 had certainly prospered because of this. This – and their loyalty to the Capitol. It did not mean that the citizens of District 2 were blind to the wrongs in their country, but they were more inclined to seek a solution by working together with the Capitol rather than working against it. Which included working together with the peacekeepers and providing new recruits every year.

As he lost sight of the PTA Marinus wondered how his classmates felt today, knowing that they, in all likelihood, were heading there after the conclusion of the Hunger Games. How would he feel were he in their place? Would he be sad for the missed chance of becoming tribute or would he look forward to all that a life as peacekeeper could offer him? Yes, the conditions were harsh in that he would have to dedicate his life to Panem for twenty years in terms of service, that only after this he could think of starting a family. But with ever changing posts he would also get to see a lot of the country. More than the ordinary citizen. And deep down Marinus longed to see something new. Because new meant new challenges. Well, if he won the games, he would get to see all districts, even if only briefly, at the victory tour. And he would get to talk to the other victors whenever they met to mentor the next batch of tributes. He would get to know Panem, just not as a peacekeeper…

This thought brought a smile to his face as he finally exited the bus with a lot more grace than he had thought possible earlier on. But now his stomach was calm again, his mind had won this battle, and he was sure to win any battle he chose to fight. Like the Hunger Games.

He signed in, waited patiently and finally got to speak the magical words: "I volunteer!"

* * *

 _District 2 – Abelia Shale, 18Y_

Abelia sighed with relief when she finally entered the Justice Building. Despite having been chosen as volunteer by Lyme, she had deep down feared that someone else – most likely Ophelia – would try to outwit her and manage to steal the place as volunteer from her.

Simply by being just that split of a second faster in announcing herself as volunteer and force a selection, which she most likely would then win as the selection was more about fighting than survival. Sure, she'd have to deal with a furious mentor afterwards, which would be rather stupid as anyone in District 2 knew that the relationship with the mentor could make or break a tribute in the arena. Nothing was so easy as to wait a few minutes too long to send the precious medicine necessary which could well mean the difference between death, mere survival or full healing. And nobody would blame the mentor. Nobody would know… Or as less direct approach advise the tribute to go for the completely wrong angle in the interview, thus lessening the chance of valuable sponsor money to begin with.

Speaking of a less direct approach, it was always possible to manage to cause the chosen volunteer to trip and hopefully cause her to break an ankle… in which case a substitute would be needed. Yes, the volunteer and the substitute would know the truth, but the substitute could claim it was a tragic accident and as long as the substitute won, the district was all too willing to forgive them any means they had taken to win, including taking out the competition before the Hunger Games had begun. And if the substitute did not win – well, in that case it didn't matter anyway, there was nobody to take to task over the manoeuvre.

But nothing had happened to her as she made her way to the stage and from there to the Justice Building. Everything was going as planned.

The door opened and her family entered.

"I still can't believe they picked someone as clumsy as you for tribute," her brother said good naturedly, though there was enough truth in his words. After all, Abelia had never shared her secret with her family.

"I'll show you clumsy, snail!" Abelia retorted. It was a long standing joke between the siblings to remark on the other's strength by reverting it. There was no way that Abelia with Stealth as her best academy class could be clumsy. Much like her brother as best sprinter of his class could be as slow as a snail.

The parents smiled indulgently at the scene, while beaming with pride at their eldest. They had known that their daughter was quite determined, but they also knew her school results well enough to know that there were other kids with higher skills at many weapons and other combat classes. So whichever strategy their daughter had employed, it had worked, which showed that their daughter was not just all brawn as so many people in Panem believed District 2's tributes to be, but that she had brains to match her physical skills.

"Keep this planning head of yours in the arena and you'll survive even the breaking up of the Career Alliance," was her mother's sole advice, and it was perhaps the best advice spoken by a parent in District 2 to their tribute child in a long time.

Abelia nodded solemnly. She just hoped that there would be a chance for her to plan ahead. She was well aware that the arena was not training environment where one could use the time spent under the shower after a gruelling session to come up with ideas on how to get better or how to outwit the competition. She would have to rely a lot on her instincts as well.

Her father, never a man of many words, gave her a strip of coiled metal and with this a physical reminder of what a sound strategy could be. "Be flexible, bend if necessary, but never forget the strength inside you and be ready to release it when triggered," the token her father had fashioned at the blacksmith's shop told her.

Again she nodded. "You are right. There's no need for me to try and compete for the leader's spot in the alliance. It will give me time to plan and be ready at a moment's notice when things have progressed beyond the point where I could rely on my allies."

"We know you'll make us proud." He said. Unsaid remained the words 'no matter what', because while everyone knew that chances to return home victorious were not as high as many would want to believe, it was considered jinxing the tribute to remind them of their own mortality in such a blatant way.

A last round of hugs saw her parents and brother depart.

Toying with the spring, Abelia wondered if any of her classmates would show up to bid her farewell. While she had never been really popular among her peers, she had had a few friends, though lasting friendships were difficult to maintain in a highly competitive environment and those who hadn't at one point or another continued their training as future tribute had simply drifted away from those who were still in the race for the eventual volunteer spot. But even those few loose friends she had had among the training classes had forsaken her once she had picked up survival classes and continued them to the end. They simply had not understood her, so why bother with someone who suddenly became interested in losers' skills?

The door opened again and to Abelia's dismay revealed Ophelia. Instantly the secret fear of her rival trying to take her place reared its ugly head once more, when to her surprise a second, a younger girl followed Ophelia inside. From the looks she was her younger sister and Abelia relaxed slightly. Ophelia would not dare to hurt her now, because chances were quite high that the peacekeeper on duty would then decide that justice would be served by sending the younger sister into the arena to punish Ophelia.

"I want you to tell your secret!" Ophelia demanded, coming straight to the point.

Abelia stared at her and it was all she could do to prevent her jaw from slacking.

"Not for me," her former rival elaborated, "but for Gertrude here. I have had my chance, but I want her to do better."

Abelia considered this request for a moment. She had not even told her family, not even her brother, and now she was asked to tell it to Ophelia's sister? But then she realized that she no longer had a rival among the girls of District 2, that she was past that stage, and that she had no younger sister to benefit from her strategy. However if she kept her secret and happened to die in the arena, it might be that nobody ever learned from her example of how to successfully become the volunteer. "It is quite simple: Know what the mentor is looking for in a tribute", she eventually said. As cryptic a hint as it was, it was the truth. And any future volunteer should work a little for this honour and not just have it served on a silver platter.

* * *

 _District 2 – Marinus Bolen, 18 Y_

On the outside, it looked like the ordinary farewell to a District 2 tribute. At least that was what Marinus imagined a farewell in their district looked like. Even from the stage he had seen his father look around at their neighbours with pride, barely restraining the urge to yell out loud that this was his son up there on the stage. As if their friends and neighbours did not already know that he had been chosen as volunteer this year. Strange enough, his mother at that moment had had tears in her eyes, which had Marinus dread a bit her appearance in the farewell room. He felt that he could deal with just about anything, arena included, but not a weepy mother.

Luckily that was not the case by the time the family entered the room; his mother was more than composed. Indeed she was so far from weepy that it was creepy in its own way.

"Don't mind kids of age twelve or thirteen. It would reflect badly on you, if you killed them too early in the game, and might make you lose sponsors. Yet if these find themselves in an alliance and you along with the other Careers happen to come upon the alliance, you can go directly for the little ones. Nobody will blame you then," she told him matter-of-factly. "Just make sure to be remorseful later and claim that you had been aiming at one of the older ones in the alliance and that the little one had been getting in the way. But in the end you'll be doing them a favour to take them out of the game. There's no chance anyway of them winning."

Marinus looked uncomfortable at the thought of going after the youngest. Yes, their chances were as slim as being reaped in the first place, yet there were always one or two in the tribute harvest. And past games had always shown that one did well not to underestimate them. While they all eventually died, they more often than not managed to cause some serious trouble.

"Look out for those aged fifteen and sixteen. They are often rather confident, thinking they can make up for lack of skills with aggressiveness. These you need to take out first. Luckily those from Districts Twelve and Three usually are scared as deer, so it should be easy to take them out with a well thrown knife in the initial bloodbath. For Districts Ten, Eleven and Seven, if you don't consider taking one of them into your alliance, you'll be doing better at a close range. Especially with Seven you have to make sure they don't get one of their axe things, which would give them range for throwing. And attack them with a weapon they can't handle, should they happened to wrest it from you in the fight. But above all, don't go all gallant in terms of girls. You are trained better than that. Those twelve girls in the arena are as much your enemy as the eleven other boys."

It was all Marinus could do to keep from squirming as his mother kept up a constant stream on how to best take out the tributes from different districts. It was as if his mother's callous advice finally brought home the fact that he would have to kill those other people. That it was a completely different situation than just sprinting around the perimeter of the training facility and see who was fastest. Or who scored the most points at knife throwing. Or… or… or… He'd have to kill!

Instinctively he clutched his baby brother, who was seated on his lap, closer. What would Rhys think of him when he was old enough to understand that his big brother had volunteered to murder other kids?

A small whimper from Rhys brought Marinus to his senses. He had been hugging the toddler so hard that the little tyke got scared. Hastily he released his hold a bit to allow the small one enough room to wriggle without tumbling to the floor. Marinus silently cursed himself for his weakness. How could he have forgotten that as tribute he'd have to kill other kids? Yes, he had been trained to do just that, but now that the theoretical knowledge was to become part of the imminent reality he was scared nonetheless. Not that he could show it to anyone – including his family.

But maybe it was too late for that already… His father was by now giving him strange looks, as if he himself was struggling whether to contradict his wife's advice in order to put his son's mind at ease or to let her go on and thus prepare Marinus for the harsh truth. There was a small glint of sympathy, yet the greater part of that look bespoke of steely confidence.

Luckily analysing his father's look allowed Marinus to drown out his mother's words and get a grip on himself. He was relieved when he felt some kind of grim mask slip into place, hiding all his confusion and fear.

His father nodded imperceptively and reached into the right pocket of his trousers. He pulled out what looked like a piece of cotton string, but the moment Marinus spotted it, he knew what it was. "Here, son, you know what to do with it. And more importantly you also know that you'll find its equivalent in enough places in the arena."

It was an explosive fuse. On its own it was pretty useless and as such safe to have as token, not to mention that one could fashion a fuse from enough material readily available in any arena if one knew how to. And Marinus certainly knew about this. But as his father had just hinted at, he also knew that there were always explosives in the arena. The launching pads for once, but the gamemakers also had a tendency to rig certain parts of the arena with explosives so as to cause landslides, ignite forest fires or whatever means they considered suitable to bring tributes, who strayed too far from the fray back into the folds of killing.

"Thanks, dad," he said and he was truly grateful. With this token, his father had reminded him that he did not have follow his mother's more gruesome advice but could bring down the other tributes from a safe distance and not see their stares breaking as death claimed them as he would have to do when killing someone with the sword. He still knew that he could not avoid close combat, especially when it came to taking down the other Careers, but all in all he felt calmer now.

* * *

 _Capitol – Felina Brompton_

Angry lights flickered on the dashboard in front of her and the two dozen colleagues on duty for the first shift of collecting the call-in sponsor money. Annoyed Felina glanced at the board as if she could convey her thoughts back through the line. But every year it was the same: As soon as the Reaping in District 2 was over the people got so excited that they would not wait for the lines to open but immediately called to announce proudly that they wanted to sponsor either girl of boy of District 2. That was the downside of Reaping Day being the same to the Capitol every year. It made the audience antsy to finally become actively involved. Because of course people wanted to sponsor likely winners. Why waste money on someone who in all likelihood would die within the first half hour of the actual games? And in this District 2 was perhaps the absolute favourite with the Capitolites. But with even the telephone number for the sponsor lines being the same every year...

"I wish they would finally get to changing that stupid number," Felina sighed.

Her colleague in the neighbouring seat grinned. "And what would give them this idea?"

"My answers in every Hunger Games' survey?" Felina asked with a slight sarcasm to her voice. "Every year I ask them to either change the number or at least have Caesar Flickerman remind the audience that sponsoring lines open only after the Reaping of District One."

"Hm, good point," her colleague replied, obviously annoyed by the frantic lights of the dashboard herself. "Perhaps we should coordinate our answers with the others here this year and see if multiple answers of the same kind will finally change something."

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	13. Chapter 12 - Reaping District 1

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 12: Reaping – Under pressure (District 1)**

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

As was to be expected, there had been no big surprises in District 2's Reaping. And still Caesar breathed a sigh of relief. He did not want to imagine what an outcry it would provoke in the Capitol, should anything go awry with the Reaping there, such as a twelve-year-old being reaped and there being no volunteer. The tributes from District 2 were simply too popular with the people here to allow for anything else. But then again, knowing his fellow Capitolites as he did, they would most likely expect even a twelve-year-old from District 2 to be a mini super-killer, no matter how unrealistic that was. And to work with these expectations while balancing them against the reality was a sure way to get nightmares and a gastric ulcer of the worst kind. So having a classical Reaping in District 2 was so much better.

Now there was only one district left for Reaping and afterwards a couple of screened scenes and his work for the day was done. This thought alone evoked another sigh of relief from the long time host.

Donning his stage smile for the second to last time that day, Caesar turned to the camera. "Now my dear friends, there is only one precious district left, a true gem among the districts. You have of course already guessed it, it is time for us to join District One, birthing place of the beautiful and luxurious articles with which we love to adorn our homes and ourselves. And beautiful, precious and stunning is also a fitting way to describe the tributes coming from that district. Why, it even reflects in the names of the district's inhabitants. But first we also want to show you a few gems of recorded pictures from District Five in the split screen."

* * *

 _District 1 – Tourmaline Rosenberg, 17 Years_

As Tourmaline dressed with extra care in front of the mirror in her room, she tried to envision how the creations of the Capitol stylists would turn her out into the stunning beauty she was convinced she was underneath the skin, which refused to get a healthy tan, and the somewhat lank hair. She was okay with the rest of her body, which was so far as well trained as that of any other would-be-tribute, and her best feature was undoubtedly her eyes, which were of a deep and mesmerizing blue. And well, yes, the new dress her parents had bought her for the Reaping Day was also really beautiful and helped emphasize her eyes. She knew she was blessed with her family, with her father's business of dealing with antique maps and documents bringing in enough money that they could afford new clothes so easily. Because despite working with the most precious treasures reaped from Panem's earth, the profit made from producing luxury items was not as high as might be imagined, and salaries of mere clerks or even such sad existences as those who swept the floors of the manufactories' workshops in this district were rather low. Tourmaline knew of many a classmate who had to make do with so much as an added new ribbon to give the impression of a new gown.

"Do you want me to braid your hair?" The sound of her mother's voice drifted over to her from the door.

Tourmaline turned and nodded with a grateful smile. With her mother's nimble fingers at least her hair-problem would be solved. And today it was especially important that she looked her best if she did not want to embarrass her district.

Yet even the intricate weaving of the hairdo did not keep the pegged beauties of her class from sneering at her, when they all made their way to the square.

"Hey Rosenberg, nice dress. Too bad it doesn't help with your inferior looks."

"Yeah, waste of expense. Good that it's the last time you put your parents through this expense," another added.

She tried her utmost not to react to the jibes, but it was hard. It was not even that those words or similar phrases were new to her; they had accompanied her at least for the past three years. That was life in District 1 to you. For all the comparative wealth their industry brought with it, they were highly competitive, going so far as to give their district a highly divisible class system. Tourmaline well remembered her last evaluation day about four months ago.

" _Rosenberg, Tourmaline," the trainer called out with a frown._

 _Tourmaline hurried over to the starting point and got ready to traverse the obstacle course._

" _Rosenberg, what are you doing here?" the trainer asked mildly annoyed._

" _Getting evaluated," she returned with all the confidence she could muster, though she was rather nervous._

" _Didn't we discuss it last time?"_

 _Tourmaline fought not to squirm. "You may have mentioned that you wouldn't be all that surprised if I didn't show up for the next evaluation," she recited nearly verbatim the trainer's words._

" _And…"_

" _I figured you left the decision up to me."_

 _With a sigh the trainer signalled one of the trainers from a weapon station to take over for him for the moment, then pulled Tourmaline to the far side of the bleachers, where they could talk without anyone eavesdropping without their noticing. Already Tourmaline could feel the eyes of the other trainees on them, or more particularly on her, and – although she knew this to be only her imagination – the sniggers._

" _Rosenberg… Tourmaline, while I admire your perseverance and will be the first to say that it's good and healthy that you keep your body trained – indeed too many of your classmates already show signs of becoming rather flabby around the waist – you should have realized already a year ago, that you'll never be chosen as volunteer."_

 _Tourmaline blushed slightly. Of course she had not been blind. She had seen that she was never given the special attention by any of the trainers unlike the pegged beauties, who would one day be elected as volunteer. It was almost the opposite compared to her other classes, where her teachers would encourage her in every way. But that was the norm in District 1, where the beautiful kids were trained to become Hunger Games volunteers and the rest encouraged as best to their talents to make their way in one of the many branches of the luxury industries. And always the teachers thought they were doing their best for the students. "I know," she said quietly._

" _And…?"_

 _Her blush deepened. The trainer would never understand her motivation. It was obvious that the famous people in their district were of course the victors of former Hunger Games, who were everybody's heroes and idols. But in school, next to the victors, the most popular were those kids who were good looking, even downright beautiful and who were the pets of the athletic trainers, as they were already regarded as the future victors, the future idols of the district. And all Tourmaline wanted was to be popular. So, to be one of the really cool kids at school, she had to stay in the training, allowing her to be at least informed about what was going on there. It would give her some borderline popularity, despite the fact that she was still not truly and would never be accepted by the other trainees. But it was a far cry better than the longing looks the non-volunteer kids, who had dropped out of training months and years ago and who no longer even made that much of an effort on Reaping Days to look as if they could become tributes, cast in the direction of the trainers' pets. "I guess you won't be evaluating me today?"_

" _I will, if you insist."_

" _But you'd rather not."_

 _He nodded. "If you want, you can still join the group for training, to keep fit. But at this stage you'll be rather late to pick a definite career, so you might need to dedicate the afternoon hours to that."_

 _Tourmaline nodded weakly. The trainer was right, in the end it was rather useless of her to keep trying to earn her acceptance among the popular this way. But she was not yet willing to give up the dream of being popular altogether._

She had still gone to the training, despite the fact that her peers had stepped up their sneering and jibes. The trainers had all but ignored her, but she had accepted that. At this time she had simply needed the freedom training provided her to come up with a plan to still win the acceptance of the others. She didn't need the time to plan her career as the trainer had alluded; she already knew where she'd be heading after school in terms of talents. Her gift with handwriting meant she'd be accepted with pleasure in any of the calligraphy studios along the arts mile of the district. Or she might simply work in her father's business, helping restore those maps and documents he'd sell to the customers from the Capitol.

Then, two months later, she had come up with a plan which was close to foolproof. A plan she had been even willing to sacrifice two afternoons a week for. A plan, which would now come into fruition.

As Tourmaline filed in along with the rest of the girls, she could easily make out Helena Golden in the section before her. Her straight, upright posture gave her dead away as this year's prime volunteer. Well, Helena would be most disappointed later tonight.

Her gaze wandered over the width of the stage and locked in on the spot where the two glass bowls stood. All through the recital of the History of Panem her eyes would not stray from them. She had to keep herself from grinning as well as from shaking out the hands where the ghost of a cramp seemed to still linger, as the mayor welcomed the escort and the past victors. Because, what nobody knew, all slips in the girls' bowl had just one and the same name on them…

"Tourmaline Rosenberg!"

The magical moment had come. Straightening her shoulders, Tourmaline made her way to the stage.

"Hello my dear," the escort greeted her. Taking in her appearance and having seen her come from the seventeen-year-old section, he tried to reassure her, assuming her to be scared. "Don't be afraid, everything will turn out alright for you."

Tourmaline had to fight not to roll her eyes. She was not afraid. But the escort had been correct in one point – everything would turn out alright for her. She stepped beside him and faced the crowd as he asked the customary question.

"Any volunteers?"

He had barely finished the second word, when Helena already spoke up and announced her intention of taking Tourmaline's spot in the arena.

Tourmaline took a deep breath and said in a loud and clear voice: "I refuse!"

The whole square was shocked in silence, while her words seemed to echo throughout the whole country. Refusal! Unheard of. Especially in this district. At least where it concerned a child clearly not tribute material. It might happen among the eighteen-year-olds should one of them be reaped and who had come out of evaluation only as second or third, so wanted to take this chance the odds had presented them. But with her, a year too young and with too plain features? It went against all conventions and traditions of District 1. And yet, Tourmaline had realized during her solitary lap running, that it was within the rights of any reaped tribute to refuse another person's offer of volunteering. Which meant she only had to find a way to ensure that it was her name that came out of that dreaded bowl.

* * *

 _District 1 – Marten Cooper, 18 Years_

There was a soft clinking noise to be heard in the abandoned gym. As the young man made his way deeper into the halls of the gym he could easily distinguish the sound as coming from the weight station. And sure enough, once he rounded the walls of the knife throwing range, he could see his younger brother lying on the bench, lifting weights as if this was a day as any other.

"Hey, Marten, what are you doing here? Have you forgotten? There's no training today, everybody has the day off!"

The young man on the bench did not even turn his head, but continued the lifting till he had completed the set of repetitions. Only when he returned the weight to the stand and sat up, did he shoot a smile in the direction of his brother. Grabbing his towel he said: "Don't you know, Desman, that already one day without training makes you start losing muscle mass? Sure, it's not even one percent per day, but it adds up."

"Yeah… to not even two percents by the time you get to use the fancy training facilities in the Capitol," Desman scoffed.

"Fancy they may be," Marten returned, "but I will hardly use them for training."

His brother just looked at him in silent contemplation.

"Oh, come on. We have three days in those training facilities. Three days which will be mostly used to intimidate those tributes who are not Careers, to see if there is anyone worth adding to our alliance, especially should we by chance receive minor tribute material from District Four. Yes, I will test out a couple of stations there, if only to get a feel to the weapons I might use for the private session, but most of the time will be spent with psychological preparations," he explained. "So, if I don't keep up at least some training on my own, I might as well end up with about four percents less in muscle mass by the time I enter the arena."

"You are crazy!" Was all Desman said, shaking his head. He knew it was useless to argue with Marten about such things. After all, it had been Marten's habit to train every Reaping Day in the past, which was why he had gone looking for him in the gym in the first place. There had even been a time when he himself had been the same.

"No, I'm just focussed," Marten insisted.

"Yeah, I know," Desman muttered, "focussed on fulfilling the old man's dream."

"Oh, Desman, don't. Don't go there. Dad's dreams are not that bad. And what's the deal if they coincide with my own?" Marten hated it when his brother had this disapproving note in his voice.

"Are you really sure these are your own dreams, Marten? You, like I, grew up in a house which left no space for any other dream than the Hunger Games."

"And yet you found yourself another dream. So, if I still have the Hunger Games as dream, shouldn't it be sign enough for you that this is really what I want to do? Not just because of dad?"

Desman shot his brother a weak smile. "Maybe. But what would you do, if you hadn't been chosen as volunteer?"

Marten grinned. "I don't know. Luckily I never had to face that question."

"Oh Marten… Tell me at least that there's a girl you'll be hoping to get back to after the games."

"Too busy." This time Marten avoided the gaze of his brother, though he knew that Desman understood all that was left unsaid well enough. The last months if not years, Marten's sole focus had been on training to become this year's boy tribute. Failure was simply not an option in the grand scheme of the family. And there was even the tiny voice inside his head whispering that if not for Desman, their father might not have been so insistent, not so hard on Marten. But Mr. Cooper was a man of big dreams but little means. Good-looking enough himself to have been kept in the training program all through the school, he had been faced with the bitter reality of what became of those who had been groomed for the games, but who, in the final evaluation, failed to take the top spot. In turn he had become a bitter man, whose only hope was for his children to fulfil his dreams of glory. With a handsome wife of much the same background as himself, they had managed to have two handsome sons, with bone and muscle structure which made them prime material for future games. And indeed it seemed that their grand plans were to fulfil themselves in their eldest son Desman, who was always top of his class. Until the fateful day, when Desman met Selene and fell in love with her. This in itself might not have meant instant catastrophe, but when Selene became pregnant and Desman decided to do what was right by her instead of what his family wanted – namely dropping out of training to get a job and prepare for married life – the Coopers' attention had immediately shifted to Marten. Indeed it was as if for all things Desman was dead to his parents. So, in a way, it was perhaps really Desman's fault that Marten had been so focussed on training that he had had no time to find a girlfriend.

Desman sighed and carded his fingers through his hair. "Look, I'm…"

"Don't," Marten interrupted him. "Don't say you're sorry. I've seen you. Just last week I've seen you with Selene and Sheen at the market. You looked happy. So don't say you're sorry."

"You are right. Still, I wish it would not have to be that you have to pay for my happiness."

Marten shrugged. "Well, who knows, once I'm in the games, dad might even forgive you."

"Sure," Desman scoffed. "If only to get his hands on my son. Heck, even you winning wouldn't keep him from trying to make the next generation live up to his dreams."

"The way you talk, one could almost think you are contemplating disfiguring your son, so that he is not pegged as potential tribute."

"Selene would never forgive me if I did such a thing. Though there have been nights where I asked myself if those of plain looks don't have a better life in our district. Because, let's face it – the life of a clerk is a poor life. In this I can even understand why dad wants the big house in the victor's village so bad. But then I remember that the encouragement we receive at school is not everything. I, as parent, can always do my share and encourage my son to do better in the other classes, where the teachers might not be petting him as the athletics trainers do. So that by the time he is eighteen, he has a real choice… a prospect… of making his way, of earning himself a good position. All dad ever did was encourage us in terms of our physical training. And look where it landed me… Every day I have to struggle to get the accounts at the shop right, where an ordinary kid would have no trouble setting them up and closing them in five minutes. And I at least got some help from the teachers during my last year in school…"

Marten decided not to say anything about this. Yes, the system the schools in District 1 propagated was perhaps flawed, but it seemed to work for the district. And Marten was glad that his brother had realized, that he as a parent had as much influence as the school. Something he was not sure many families of their social sphere understood. Least of all their own father.

"Anyway, enough of this. It was not my intention to question you or the philosophies of our district. I rather came to remind you that now you have only half an hour left to shower and make it to the square – it was almost an hour when I first got here, sorry for that – and to ask you whether you want us to come to the Hall of Justice to say goodbye or if you'd prefer we stay away lest the parents make a scene."

"Aw, Desman, of course, I want you to come. After all, it's the first legit chance I have to see my nephew. Don't let dad scare you away."

With this Marten dashed off in the direction of the locker rooms.

His hair was still wet, when he made it to the square right before the Peacekeepers set off to go and search for any stragglers. As he made his way to the front of the roped off areas to join the other eighteen-year-olds he could not help but notice that quite a few of the guys with whom he had been training for the past ten years at least and with whom he had even joked only a couple of weeks ago were now looking rather sad, if not downright depressed. All those, who had not been chosen as volunteer. Because there could always only be one tribute, one volunteer.

And then the unthinkable happened. The girl tribute reaped from the bowl refused the volunteer! Fear gripped Marten, as he felt like a wave his peers around him straightening. Refusal… What if the odds favoured another eighteen-year-old today? Someone who would refuse Marten as volunteer, just like this girl had refused Helena? Where would that see him, Marten? He had no other future but the Hunger Games!

Slowly, way too slowly for Marten's liking, the escort made his way over to the boys' bowl. Holding his breath, Marten prayed for a boy of fifteen or younger to be reaped. Someone who would be glad to be spared by a volunteer.

"Marten Cooper!"

For the second time in one Reaping, the unthinkable had happened. This time in form of the escort actually reaping the chosen volunteer.

"Yes!" Marten couldn't help it; he cried out his relief, as he pushed his way through the other boys and walked up to the stage. "Yes!" Grinning broadly, he reached the escort.

Still a bit dazed by what had happened during the girls' Reaping, the man eyed him cautiously, knowing after this reaction that this young man would not accept a volunteer in his stead either. Still, there was a protocol to follow. And the protocol demanded that he ask for volunteers.

But Marten had no inclination to let anyone challenge his spot in the games. Walking up to the microphone – after all, the protocol demanded that he be introduced to the district, or rather the audience at the Capitol – he stated in a loud and clear voice: "Marten Cooper, tribute and chosen volunteer of District One!"

With this he glared defiantly at his year mates, daring any of them to oppose his claim.

* * *

 _District 1 – Tourmaline Rosenberg, 17Y_

As the doors closed behind her and she found herself alone in her farewell room in the Hall of Justice, Tourmaline marvelled at the fact that she had done it. That she finally belonged.

Her parents came in, looking almost like ghosts, like it had been them who had been reaped, not her. That they were afraid for her, or maybe even of her. But didn't they understand? Couldn't they at least try to look like they were a bit proud of her? Of wanting to show all of them that one didn't have to be a trained monkey like all the other tributes of their district, to be a successful Hunger Games' participant?

Notions of doing something grand besides her own egoistical dreams of acceptance among the cool kids filled her mind. Notions of fighting the screwed system, which categorized kids from early on in two classes – those pretty enough to be groomed as tribute, and those not.

"Why?" Her father asked, his voice almost breaking with suppressed sobs. "Why, Tourmaline?"

And just as sudden as the notions of doing something more than just wanting to become popular had appeared, they vanished. Because to her father they wouldn't count. No more than her wish to be popular would count. Because he was satisfied with the comparatively prosperous life he and his family lived.

"You had such a bright future before you. Why throw it all away?"

"Who says I'm throwing it away? Who says I'm not building myself an even better future?" she tried to argue. "I went through the same training as all the other kids. So who is to say that I won't win? Wouldn't you like to live in the victors' village?"

Her father shook his head. "Tourmaline, I know that you are strong willed. But in the arena, the odds are not in your favour. We were so happy to know that you'd be safe from risking you life. That you'd make yourself a good life with your talent for calligraphy. What is the dream of victors' village if it remains a dream? The dream we had for you was a solid one. Perhaps not as fancy as victors' village, but it didn't feature death looming over your head in such a fashion."

"Your dream. Not mine," Tourmaline snapped. She knew it was useless to argue with her father about it. It also was much too late for any such discussion. Even if she were to change her mind – which was highly unlikely – she could no longer back out.

"Tourmaline Deidre Rosenberg!" her mother scolded her. Gone were the tears in her eyes. "Don't you dare speak with your father like this! It is one thing to pursue your own dreams, but another to disrespect your father for his."

Chastised Tourmaline hung her head. She knew her mother was right. She also knew that her father's dreams were no different from the dreams most parents had for her classmates. But if she allowed his opposition to get to her, to fester within her, it would weaken her in the Games. Yet, at the same time, she knew that she would feel even more horrible, if she didn't try to mend fences at least a bit. "I'm sorry, papa." And she meant it. "I'm sorry that I disappointed you with my decision, but… I would never be happy if I did not follow my own dream."

"Hector?" Her mother prompted.

"I… see." Her father conceded. "I wish I could say I understand, but I don't. But I'm certainly wishing you all the luck available in these games so that you make it home to us." He hesitated for a moment. Then he retrieved his key-ring from his pocket and removed an ancient looking key. "They say it once belonged to what was then called a strong-box, where people stored their treasures. And there is no greater treasure than the future. So use this key to unlock yours."

Handing his daughter the key, he left the room.

Now it was Tourmaline's turn to have tears in her eyes.

"I don't understand it either," her mother said, hugging her fiercely, "but if this is what you really want to do, then I'll have faith in you." With this, she followed her husband.

Left alone, Tourmaline let a few silent tears escape her eyes, before brushing them away determinedly. Tears wouldn't help her. Tears weren't part of her plan. And now that she had made it so far, she simply had to follow that plan to the end. To victors' village.

But she had not been quick enough to hide all traces of her tears, because the door to the room had opened again already, admitting Helena Golden.

"Now you are sorry," she scoffed. "A little late for that, Rosenberg."

Clutching the key her father had handed her, Tourmaline turned to face the former volunteer. "I am not sorry," she said with a calm voice. "At least not for refusing any volunteers. Because without you taking my place, I finally belong. I'm one of you now. I'm the tribute."

Helena stared at her incredulously. "One of us?" she reiterated. "Rosenberg, you are delusional! If, by some miracle, you make it home as victor, you'll be that: A victor! You'll be as far removed from the rest of us then you were before, though in a different way. Why, you had it all! A few more years and you'd have been well established as one of the upper middle class of our society. The ones, who always wear nice and new dresses for Reaping Day and Victory Tour. The ones with a future, with a nice job, a nice husband, nice kids… The ones, people like my family always envy. The ones who don't have to think about the disgrace of tesserae," she ranted.

"Tesserae?" Tourmaline stared at Helena. Yes, there were people who earned less than others in their district, but tesserae? Nobody needed to sign up for that in this district.

"Yes, tesserae!" Helena spat. "Do you know how expensive a nice dress can be?" She looked at Tourmaline. "Of course you don't know. When it became clear that I stood a likely chance to be elected as volunteer, my sister, my brother and I all signed up for tesserae. So that we could save the money our family would otherwise spend on food so that we could afford a dress with which I could walk up to the stage and ride the train to the Capitol without bringing shame to my family or my district. And then you came along and stole everything from me. My whole future. For at the end of the day, when school is over and there are no more games to train for… what am I then?"

Helena was nearly crying by then and Tourmaline was decidedly uncomfortable. But then she recalled Helena's attitude back in school, the attitude of all those other hopeful future tributes, who had looked down on her, just because her looks were plain.

"Why… we even had thought you might go for the post of future mayor in our district. What with you doing volunteer work in his administration and all that? And let me tell you: I thought that when the time came I'd even vote for you in the recommendation."

Tourmaline blushed slightly.

"But then you went and pulled such a stunt… Well, the odds were clearly in your favour, since it was your name that came out of the bowl. Perhaps it was meant this way."

As Helena left, Tourmaline sat in silent contemplation. Had it really been the right thing to rig the Reaping the way she had? Forging all those slips of paper with that fancy handwriting only the Capitol had time for in writing, yet expected the districts to use for the slips? The slips and the required hand-writing were the reason Tourmaline had had no difficulty getting the job at the mayor's office. Everyone there had been glad enough to leave the slip-writing to the talented girl. Originally she had only applied for a job in the office in hopes of finding out more of the Reaping process behind the scenes. But with such an opportunity handed to her on a golden platter, she had not hesitated in the slightest. In the afternoons she had dutifully written the correct names, while at night she had written her own name over and over again, to secretly replace the original slips.

But then again, weren't all those stunning beauties, groomed by the trainers as tributes, rigging the Reapings their own way? By presenting the audience a volunteer any reaped tribute would be foolish to refuse?

Life wasn't fair, and everyone fought with the weapons fate handed them. And if hers were ink and pen, so why should she refuse to use them?

* * *

 _District 1 – Marten Cooper, 18Y_

"The nerve of that girl!" Mr. Cooper spat as soon as he entered the room where his son was waiting. "Who does she think she is? But you'll show her that she is nothing compared to a real tribute, Marten." And he slapped his son on the shoulders.

Marten rolled his eyes. Yes, he would show that girl that he was the better tribute. Eventually. But at first there would be other tributes to focus on. Because even if this Tourmaline was a year younger than their usual tributes and rather plain, she looked fit enough… and if she had passable weapon skills, they might keep her as part of the Careers. She certainly didn't lack the necessary self-confidence.

The door opened again and admitted Desman, Selene and little Sheen.

Obviously the father had noticed their entrance, because the way he ignored them was too blatant to be natural. Also he began loudly to praise his son, who had made him proud by becoming chosen volunteer of their district. "But not only chosen volunteer," he proclaimed with evident pleasure. "Chosen tribute by fate as well! A sure sign that you will win, my son!"

Again there was an emphasis on the last word, telling all present that he only considered Marten his son, that Desman no longer existed for him. It pained Marten to no end.

"Dad, please."

"What, my son? No need to be shy! If one is chosen by fate the way you were, there's no need for modesty."

"Dad!" Marten tried again with more force. "Stop it. Stop ignoring Desman. Stop ignoring your own grandson. Stop forcing me to pretend I have no brother just to please you. Can't you forgive him? Now that things will change forever? Now that I'll be heading for the games, just as we always dreamed of?"

"Pah, the future is for winners, not for losers," Mr. Cooper scoffed.

"And… and what…" Marten took a deep breath, hoping he wasn't jinxing himself by speaking the next words. "What if in the end there is no future for me? If I die in the games? If I'll end up being a loser as well?"

"What are you talking about? Rubbish! I'll gladly repeat myself: You were chosen by fate to be both volunteer and reaped tribute, no way fate is going to mess with the outcome of these games by making you lose!" his father replied stubbornly.

"Dad…"

"Let it go, little brother," Desman said quietly and laid a calming hand on Marten's arm. "We all have to live our own lives, make our own decisions."

Marten watched his father. He could see that his old man longed to say something in reply to Desman's words. After all, Mr. Cooper was one of those people who always had to have the last word. But his pride would not allow him to acknowledge his oldest son, and by saying something in return would acknowledge the words, as well as the speaker. And somehow this made Marten smirk lightly. It was good to see his father squirm a bit. Yes, he too had been initially disappointed in his brother, but he was not made to carry a grudge for long, especially where it concerned family, so he had longed for a reconciliation. Perhaps it even had subconsciously pushed him further to do his best and become a Hunger Games tribute. Because the farewell would bring them all together.

Marten turned his face and looked at Selene. "May I hold my nephew?" he asked. He would make the most of those precious minutes. And he would force his father to see his grandson, since there was no way Mr. Cooper would leave before their time was up. Leaving would mean defeat and for a proud man like him it was unthinkable to admit being defeated by someone who no longer lived for him.

Selene knew what Marten was attempting, but while she might not have fully agreed with her brother-in-law's intentions, she would not deny him his nephew. Not when it perhaps was the only chance he ever had to do so. And then there was something else. Something which gave her, as well as Marten, a tiny glimmer of hope. Mrs. Cooper was looking on with longing in her eyes. It was clear to all present that she wanted to hold her grandson very much. That only loyalty to her husband kept her from acting on that longing.

Sheen was obviously a bit overwhelmed by the three strangers, who were all acting so very differently. But apparently he sensed something similar to the protective strength his father emitted in Marten, as he soon enough quieted down and eventually snuggled into his uncle's chest.

"You look good with the child," Desman said with a smile.

"All the more reason to come back and spoil my nephew with my attention," Marten replied grinning.

"Or get a little one of your own," Selene suggested. She searched the large bag she was carrying and which contained apparently half of the contents of their home as far as Marten could see. His sister-in-law saw the curious look and sighed slightly. "Ah, yes, the pleasures of having a small child. You never leave home without carrying everything you might need for an emergency… from toys to diapers to food to clothes to… The list goes on and on… But it's worth it." Having finally found what she had been looking for, she handed Marten a blue bootie. "Here, for you, as token. So that you're always reminded of what awaits you here, what you are fighting for."

"And don't forget, little brother: Your life, your decisions. There's nobody to tell you otherwise in the arena." With this Desman lifted Sheen off Marten's lap and the small family left.

"The nerve of them," grunted Mr. Cooper as soon as the door had closed behind them.

"Dad, I'll only say it one more time. Stop it!" Marten said gently. "And before you suggest otherwise: I'll keep the bootie as token." Desman was right. This was his life and what lay ahead of him would be influenced by his decisions only. And he knew he'd feel much better with his nephew's bootie as token because it was spontaneous and heartfelt, than some shiny but ultimately meaningless object his father had picked years in advance.

* * *

 _Capitol – Caesar Flickerman_

"And that's it, my friends. These were the last two tributes reaped for the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games! What a stunning finish!" Caesar addressed the audience as soon as the light signalled that he was on, right after the reading of the Treaty of Treason and the shake of hands in District 1. Relief flooded through him as the last tributes were chosen without a mess such as multiple volunteers, even if this last Reaping had been a bit unconventional. "As our last tributes are heading for the Hall of Justice to say farewell to family and friends before joining us tomorrow for the Chariot Ride, the operators from our Sponsor Hotline are now ready to receive your call. The lines will open in Twelve, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One! Happy Hunger Games!"

Caesar grinned. He loved doing this little countdown. It was almost as if he could hear the audience counting down with him. As host of many of the broadcasts surrounding the Hunger Games and of course the interviews, he would refrain from sponsoring or betting, but he still felt the thrill as with the opening of the hotline the games had reached the first stage where the Capitolites could actually interact with the proceedings.

"Stay tuned though as we catch the final recorded and eventual live moments from Districts Four to One. And don't forget the recaps of the Reapings with all the highlights of the day later on." With this last gentle reminder to the audience that their watching duties were not yet completely over, Caesar was done for the day. At least with his on-screen performance. For the recaps they would luckily use recorded material of his bridges, so that his presence in the studio was not required. Instead he would spend the time in the cutters' room, equipped with a notepad to try and get the first real grasp of the kids he'd interview in a few days time. Reapings, chariot ride and the training scores were all the material he'd get to help him understand a tribute well enough to make him or her shine during their three minutes on stage. But that was yet a few days away.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. Now that you have met all the tributes, I'm going to open a poll in my profile where you can pick who you think will be the eventual victor of these games. The poll will run for two weeks.

To my awesome reviewer Vintage: Thank you very much for your great comments. I would have loved to reply to each and every of your reviews, as well as answering the questions you asked in some of them, but unfortunately you were not logged in while posting these reviews, so I did not get that nice reply option.


	14. Interlude 1

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Interlude I**

 _Capitol – Alex Norwich_

Music was blearing within the hearing range of a whole block, but nobody really listened to it. Not tonight. Not even the people inside Club Sixty-Seven, the source of the music. Any other night the club's dance floor would be a writhing mass of people with more queuing in front of the entrance, hoping for admittance. Well, the same still held true for the queuing phenomenon, but tonight, the dance floor was stacked with plush chaises on which the fabulous lounged, side tables holding fancy drinks, while other people were sitting on the floor between the furniture. All of them waiting for the moment, when the music would be turned down in favour of the anthem, which marked the beginning of the Tribute Parade. All day long the Capitol had become more and more excited about tonight's happenings, which were of course also being broadcasted on the huge screen which covered the entire length of one wall of the club.

Usually Alex preferred to spend that night at home, content to watch the spectacle on her small TV while snuggling in her pyjamas and eating popcorn. This year however she wanted to see the reaction of the people in the city to the costumes the stylists had chosen. Not that she knew the exact costumes, but well… as youngest of the archivists of ancient lore, it had been her luck to interact with all the frenzied stylists, who had demanded assistance in order to fulfil the President's decree that they dress the tributes according to some old legend. And well, as always the stylists wanted the tributes to also represent their districts. Which was kind of limiting in the choice of legend, tale or ancient record.

It also required Alex to display a degree of political savvy she had been unaware she possessed. Quite often the stylists, after a cursory search of the database, had picked something they liked, simply because it would be great in terms of turning it into a costume, but which would only get them into trouble with the President.

It was because of her personal involvement in the choice of legends that she wanted to see the reactions. A ticket to the grandstands in parade lane was of course out of the question. She simply didn't know someone important enough, who had access to the limited ticket contingent. And even if she had, she would not have been able to afford either the ticket or the favour requested in return. But she knew someone – or rather her brother knew someone – who was able to get her into one of the public viewings in one of the hottest clubs of the city. And this already came with a high enough price…

Alex walked up to the bouncer, with as much confidence as she could muster, trying to ignore his assessing look as if she was a chunk of meat, a steak perhaps, and not a person. But then again, the new outfit she wore kind of invited this kind of look… "Alexandria Norwich. I'm on the list."

The bouncer eyed her with arched eyebrows, but eventually scanned his list dutifully and there her name was, right at the bottom. "Looks you are good." And he unhooked the fancy chain which separated the rest of the people from the privileged.

Alex had to fight the urge to use her hands to cover her derriere, where she felt the bouncer's gaze linger lasciviously. Oh, that damned outfit! But she couldn't expect her brother to pull strings for her and then show up all buttoned up, prim and proper and – to the club culture – boring. So there she was, wearing a skimpy silver dress and fake rainbow vine tattoos on her legs – the real tattoos were the current fashion fad – and silently thanked her parents for her good metabolism which allowed her to even wear such a dress without having to invest in some slimming surgery first.

"Alexandria, baby, if I had know that Demetrius had such a hot sister, I would not have allowed him to hide her so long," her host greeted her with more aggressive familiarity than Alex was comfortable with. Just one more price to pay for being among the privileged tonight.

Luckily the anthem saved her and while her host made his way to his chaise and bevy of admirers, she slipped into an unobserved corner. Well, not completely unobserved, as even before the gates on the screen had opened to show the first pictures of the tributes of District 1, a waiter appeared silently next to her, offering her a tray of assorted coloured drinks from which to choose.

The first chariot rolled into view, the tributes clothed in gold, with wisps of clouds adorning their heads.

"Not that much of a surprise," the waiter commented.

Alex, carefully sipping her purple drink, smirked. "Oh, you'd be surprised how difficult it can be to come up with gold for dress."

"Surely not? If not gold, it's glimmer, glitter, silver, rhinestone, whatever is sparkly."

"Yes, but what if you also have to please the President, who suddenly has the idea that it would be great if the stylists gave their outfits a theme from some ancient legend?"

"He did that?" The waiter stared at her a little dumbfounded and for the first time that evening Alex did not mind being the object of a stare. But that might be because he had the most amazing blue eyes. Or maybe it was because he was staring at her face and not her rack. Or maybe the purple drink was more potent than she had been aware of.

She nodded and pointed with her chin in the direction of the tributes. And just then, on the screen, appeared in matching golden letters below the chariot: 'District 1 – Mother Hulda – golden gifts for the industrious'.

"Their stylists first wanted to pick the legend of King Midas, an ancient king who could turn everything into gold he touched," Alex commented.

"Why did they change it to Mother Hulda then?" the waiter inquired, thinking a king with a golden touch much more like the kind of legend a stylist would pick for District 1.

"Because King Midas eventually starved to death as he could not even touch food without turning it into gold. And it would be impolitic to suggest that a tribute from District One was destined to starve in the arena."

"Ouch."

"Ouch indeed." Alex nodded.

Together they admired the knights as which the tributes of District 2 were dressed up – an homage to the loyal knights of fabled King Arthur's Round Table.

For the next one, the waiter – he had introduced himself by now as Julius – turned to Alex, waiting to her to reveal again some deeper knowledge about the costumes. The poor tributes from District 3 looked… well… strange, clad in what looked like black boxes with equally black horned hats protruding to the left and right of their heads, and above all this the ensemble was dotted with pale green round spots.

"Uh… that's not what I had in mind when I told them the anecdote surrounding the first telephone." Alex nearly choked on her drink. "I almost wish I had not dissuaded them from their first idea of dressing the tributes up as Energizer Bunnies. But well, a pink plush, battery powered toy would for one give a notion that the stylists don't take the tributes serious – a serious mistake – and then batteries could also stand for District Five and thus lead to misunderstandings. I thought the telephone was a safer bet. But that they would try to incorporate the first sentence supposedly transmitted by a telephone – 'The horse doesn't eat cucumber salad' – is really taking things a bit too far."

"The green spots are supposed to be cucumber salad?" Julius asked incredulously.

"Apparently. And I wouldn't be surprised if we found out that the green spots were actual cucumber slices."

Luckily District 4 gave them a breather in terms of outfits. The tributes were dressed in simple fishermen trousers – the girl was additionally wearing a bra depicting two white whales for modesty – and were heavily covered with fake black tribal tattoos. The line on the screen told the audience that this was a reference to 'Moby Dick' and the exotic harpooner Queequeg.

And while the outfits of the tributes of District 5 required a bit of explanation – they were dressed up as huge kites with a key dangling on a chain around their necks to tell of Benjamin Franklin's experiment with lightning – the outfits were rather tastefully done.

District 6 by comparison was almost lost to the audience in terms of an outfit as these tributes were simply dressed in the ancient Roman style, but Alex was quick to spot that both tributes were sporting wristwatches. She smiled and turned to Julius. "This is a reference to an old movie called 'Ben Hur', the story of which is set in ancient Rome. They had a famous chariot race in the movie, and as the trains of District 6 are racing all over the country it seemed fitting enough. Add to it that the tributes would again be in chariots it was more appealing to the responsible stylists than dressing their tributes up as legendary trains. But the movie also has an anachronism, which I could not help but mention as well: one of the actors wore a wristwatch during that race… The watch alone became a legend among movie lovers and apparently the stylists liked that anecdote as well."

So far Julius had not asked about her involvement with the outfits, but the more they shared their opinions on the parade, the more curious he got. As the chariot of District 7 rolled across the screen – the stylists had once more managed to dress their tributes up as trees and keep it within the President's decree by calling the trees Dryads – he turned to Alex and asked her about it.

"I'm an archivist for ancient lore. The must-go-to person with such a presidential order."

"You – an archivist?" He eyed her and her outfit carefully.

Luckily Alex was spared from answering as the audience at the parade erupted into cheers far louder than they had for any of the Career districts. There was even the chant of a name audible above the general roar. 'Chalen, Chalen, Chalen,' the crowd called out enthusiastically.

"Jubilation for a District Eight tribute?" Disbelieve coloured Julius' voice.

This time it was not Alex who answered him, but a snooty girl in some stylish rags which looked as if they cost fare more than what Alex paid as rent in a month for her apartment. "This is Chalen Nimara. She is producing the special trims for the haute couture coat and skirts my mum is so fond of wearing. According to the press statements of several of the leading labels, Chalen's trims are far superior to any other produce available and to lose her to the arena is a catastrophe for them. So all the big labels are having special sales to support Chalen, donating a certain percentage of the price paid in the store to the Chalen Nimara Sponsor Fund. The trims are also the reason why the tributes are having their Greek style tunics covered with various stripes of fabric. But why am I telling you this? You," she looked at Alexandria, "barely know how to follow fashion and you," pointing at Julius, "are here to serve me drinks and not discuss tributes."

Julius shot Alexandria an apologizing look and hurried to get the guest the demanded drink. He quickly toured the room with more drinks while District 9's tributes dressed up as some prince with white grains sewed to the green garments in reference to a fairy tale called 'Prince Rice Grain' rolled in and out of view on the screen. But he was back in time to watch the humiliating spectacle of District 10's tributes' costumes with her.

The girl on the screen was obviously most displeased with their stylists' decision to dress them up in long cloaks made of various fake distinctive animal skins, often with the animals' heads printed on the patch for better identification. It was an odd mix of zebra, leopard, elephant, deer, sheep, poodle, alligator, polar bear, toad – at least that's what it looked like. 'District 10 - Noah's Ark – home for all animals' the screen told the audience.

"Please tell me that this is already the better choice of legend compared to what the stylists picked first?"

Alex shook her head. "I wish I could say that. But you have to admit that it's not too bad a legend. And at least they are not wearing ship shaped hats. I fear more for the tributes up next."

"Oh no, tell me, what stupid legend have they chosen for District Eleven?" Julius moaned.

"Well, you know how we always envision District Eleven to be quite a paradise? Ancient legends tell of a paradise which was inhabited by a couple called Adam and Eve. And well… they wore nothing but fig leaves…"

"Hm… I can envision that costume for tributes built as those from District One or perhaps District Four, but District Eleven?"

"Yes. The stylists got lucky that it was not a twelve-year-old who was reaped there. Though I doubt a fourteen-year-old boy will be a convincing Adam."

"Well, there was Finnick Odair two years ago at the same age," Julius offered.

"You yourself said that the outfit was more suited for District Four than District Eleven…"

Julius watched Alex closely. "Hey, you know that you are the first female I talked to these past days who didn't get an all dreamy look in her eyes at the mention of Finnick Odair?"

Emboldened by the drinks and the appreciation Alex felt she could see in his eyes, she said: "Why would I wish to roam farther and farther? I see the good that lies so near…"

While the quote of some long forgotten poet Alex had slightly paraphrased was completely lost to Julius, the intent of her words was not. So much so that neither of them ever caught sight of the two giant spiders on the screen – District 12's tributes, who were dressed up like this in reference to some ancient Native American fire legend. And by the time the President delivered his little welcoming speech, they had decided that the night was much better spent somewhere else than in this club…

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. The poll in my profile, where you can pick who you think will be the eventual victor of these games, is still open for another week.


	15. Chapter 13 - Training: Sponsors

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 13: Training – It's all about sponsors**

 _Mags Cohen, Mentor District 4_

The cavernous hall was crawling with activity. There were the anxious horses, barely standing still if not for the handlers attending them. But even the best training could not completely overcome a horse's natural flight instincts and being in a man-made cave with tension so palpable one could almost grasp it certainly had those instincts kick in. Then there were the tributes, primped and styled and all dressed up, being ushered by their prep teams to their respective chariots. And they were all showing the whole range of human emotion befitting such a situation – confidence, awe, anxiety, even fear. There were mentors and escorts, who, depending on their personality and most likely that of their tributes, were either milling around and looking for old acquaintances among the crowd or actually trying to help and encourage their tributes. If needed.

Mags was thankful that this year's tributes of District 4 were reasonably self-confident and therefore didn't need her hanging around their chariot. This allowed her to do something for the person in her group who actually needed help. Ever since the visit of the President almost four weeks ago, Finnick Odair had been gradually crumbling before her eyes. And now that he was actually in the Capitol – well, needless to say that he was a mess. Gone was the confident boy who had won the Hunger Games two years ago. In his stead she now saw a young man who was about to be broken by the Capitol, which considered him their personal plaything. His young age had so far kept that bitter truth of a victor's life from him, but now that he was sixteen… Yet Mags would have been a lousy mentor had she given up easily. And while Finnick didn't need her to mentor him as tribute any longer, he certainly needed her to mentor him as fellow mentor.

Finally she spied the person she had been looking for – Balraj Hammond, victor of the 64th Hunger Games and now mentor of District 5. Although the chariot of District 5 was lined up right behind that of District 4, Mags had had troubles making Balraj out among the crowd. His wheelchair had hidden him entirely behind the chariot. Only when his district partner Estelle moved to cheer the little girl up, did she see him. But still she bided her time. She could not simply walk over to him. Not as long as the tributes were there to see them, or even worse within earshot.

A commotion near the gates told her that the parade was about to begin. Minutes trickled by as lazy as tar. Then the chariot of District 4 lurched forward, followed a minute later by that of District 5. She looked in Balraj's direction and caught his eye, signalling him that she needed to speak to him. Curiosity flickered in the young man's eyes and he slowly inched back into the shadows. Mags followed him. It was all the privacy they were going to get for their conversation.

"I need a favour from you," she came straight to the point. The parade after all was comparatively short and she had no time to waste.

"A favour? District Four needing a favour from District Five? What is to become of the world if things have gotten that bad?" Balraj eyed her with mild mocking sarcasm.

This was one of the downsides of being a proclaimed Career District. The other districts, including the mentors, often believed they, the Career Districts, never needed any help other than that of their sponsors. "Actually I need a favour from your tribute, Evan."

Balraj arched his eyebrows but remained silent.

"It will be worth it." Mags hated pleading. She much preferred to be the strong and proud mentor of capable tributes. But so much rode on this plan of hers… it was worth a bit of pleading.

"What is the favour and how much are you willing to give for it in return?" Balraj asked calmly, having decided that it wouldn't hurt to hear her out.

"You know that the Capitol has a certain interest in past victors?" Mags queried. She wasn't sure if with all the damage done to his body during the games – irreparable damage which resulted in him needing a wheelchair – Balraj had been subjected to the President's politics regarding victors.

The young man nodded. "I got off comparatively lightly. Some dinners or lunches – meals only."

"Well, it won't be meals only for Finnick."

Balraj nodded. "Too much interest in him to limit it to meals only. And his absence last year only increased the anticipation, I dare say."

"He is not ready. Not that it matters. But there will be expectations and if he doesn't meet them… However, I could not fail to see that apparently your Evan has been working in that particular field. So I thought that maybe he might give Finnick a few pointers? In return I'm willing to pledge two bottles of water on Day Three in the arena, supposing your tributes make it that far, or the equivalent worth in medicine or food, whichever they need most. And should either of your tributes outlive mine, the remaining sponsor money transferred right before my last tribute dies." There, she had said it.

Balraj sucked in a deep breath. "You seem to be quite confident that you'll have plenty of sponsor money if you think you have enough to spare two bottles of water or their equivalent on Day Three."

"We are talking about Finnick Odair. I had so much sponsor money when he was tribute that I could buy him a trident. Imagine how much sponsor money we'll make if he manages to meet the expectations? Right now though he is such a nervous wreck that I dare not let him enter the Sponsor Lounge, although all we do there is talk."

Balraj silently contemplated her proposal. He sighed, his eyes having a sad look in them. "You do know that Evan thinks that with the games he has a fighting chance of leaving his old profession behind? Revealing the truth to him at this stage might well put out that spark in him."

"I hate to say it, but Finnick already survived the games, so my concern is more for the living. But if Evan really looses that much of his fight, remind him that the games – and consequently his additional services to the Capitol – are limited to a few weeks a year, which would already be an improvement to his previous life." Mags bargained.

The proposal hung uneasily between them, but Mags refrained from pushing for Balraj's decision.

Eventually the young man said: "I'll take Evan up to the gardens an hour after the parade finishes. I'll tell him of your proposal. After that it's up to him. Have Finnick come up twenty minutes later. If Evan is there, then we have a deal. If Evan decides to leave with me, you're on your own."

"Fair enough," Mags conceded.

* * *

 _Evan Harris, D5, 16Y_

The roof garden was truly beautiful. But then again, so much in this city was beautiful. Especially when one compared it to District 5. Yet, it seemed that as much beauty the Capitol showed on the outside, as much ugliness it kept hidden below that surface. Much like one could also find some beauty hidden in District 5.

When his mentor Bal had, in whispered words, told him about a victor's real life, Evan's first thought had been to fling himself from the roof and escape this nightmare by ending up all smashed pulp on the sidewalk below. But one did not grow up in District 5 and not learn to detect the telltale low hum and the soft vibration of energy close by. He instantly figured that the garden was encased by a force field to prevent just that – tributes escaping the games by committing suicide.

So instead he had continued listening to Balraj, who tried to make him see that it was not all downsides. That there was also the victor's life in the district to be considered. It made him think of his grandmother and that then he would be able to afford the wheelchair for her, one like Balraj had. Surely he would be able to deal with the Capitol for a few weeks in exchange for better care for his grandmother, wouldn't he? And yet he felt uneasy thinking about Capitolites in terms of future customers. Judging by their idea of fashion alone, he did not want to know what bizarre preferences they had in other areas.

This was such a nightmare! But didn't he owe it to his grandmother to try his best nonetheless? And then there was also the promise of water, food or medicine to be considered. Along with his previous promise to protect Alicia for as long as he could. This gift would go a long way towards fulfilling that promise. He doubted that either he or Alicia would inspire that many people to sponsor them. Not when there were the Careers, the real sponsor magnets. Or the girl from District 8, whose name had been chanted by the crowd: Chalen…

Somehow Evan doubted that the crowd believed that just because the girl from District 8 had won the year before this year would be a repeat. There had to be something else about that girl which had stirred up the people. And somehow he instinctively knew that tributes whose names the crowd knew stood really good chances of having plenty of sponsor money, regardless their district number.

A plan began to form in his mind. What if he managed to win this girl, this sponsor magnet, as ally for Alicia and him? Well, he'd certainly check if she seemed approachable at training tomorrow.

A slight rustle behind him brought him out of his contemplation. Evan's eyes widened, when he realized that he had been so lost in thought that he had given the impression to Finnick Odair that they had a deal. But then again, wasn't his mind made up anyway? He forced himself to relax. If he really wanted to help the other guy, it wouldn't do for him to be all tense.

"Hey," Finnick said, with as much bravado as he could apparently muster at that moment – which was not much.

Evan reminded himself that he had not been much better when he hit the streets after his grandmother's stroke, though back then he had had his young age work in his favour. He contemplated how best to work this with Finnick. All sultry would most likely make the new minted mentor even more nervous and might cause him to flee. Even though it would show him to some degree, what would be expected of him. No, that would not work… Perhaps if he kept it all neutral? He suddenly remembered Harpax. "Hey. Ready to talk shop?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"Not really, but I guess it doesn't matter?"

"Most likely not. So tell me, what kind of clientele will you have? Male, female?"

"Male?" Finnick squeaked.

Evan couldn't help a light snigger. "Just stating possibilities. But going by your looks, it'll be female clients for you. And if you do a good job, it will stay this way."

"If I do a good job?"

Evan sighed. "Oh, come on. Relax. I'm here to tell you about the business. But I would be doing you a disservice to avoid half the truth. Fact is, human interests are not limited to the male-female relationships alone. Other combinations are also possible. Though honestly, the male-female ones, at least for you, are the better paying ones. It's strange, how the market works. Common female prostitutes with male customers make the least money. That's because the male customers think they are paying for natural service and because it is natural, they think it has to be cheap. Not fair, but well… Of course that applies only for common prostitutes, who these men only think of as vessels, not courtesans, whom they will also pay for their time, share meals with and show about to brag in front of their friends. Common male prostitutes with male customers make just a little more than their female counterparts, simply because it's considered unnatural service and as such the customer pays a bit more to have the prostitute keep his secret. Though honestly, it's usually not a secret," Evan explained the workings. "On the other hand, it's next to impossible for a male offering his body and having only male customers to become a courtesan. His male customers are unlikely to show him about and brag in front of their friends. But a male prostitute can also have female customers. It's more common than female prostitutes having female customers. For a male prostitute the female customers are the best. Out of all the client groups, they usually pay the most. And if you manage to become what I think they are hoping for you to become, you'll be a male courtesan with female clients. With your clients wanting to show you off. And I think female Capitolites like to brag as much as their male counterparts."

"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm going to be a dressed up monkey?"

"Haven't we all been that earlier tonight?" Evan muttered. "Just think of it as a similar situation like your parade back then or the interview with Caesar. Yes, you perform. But you don't have to fight for your life afterwards. Of course, the performance will be longer…"

"And end in bed with them." Finnick shuddered.

Yay, a virgin. Evan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Finnick had known for how long that he was to entertain the Capitolites this year? Even as late as last week would have been enough time to get rid of that problem if it was a problem for him. Surely there were enough willing pretty girls in District 4 who could have helped him. "Not necessarily," he said after a moment of contemplation, thinking back to all Harpax had taught him about society and courtesans and what Balraj had told him about his own appointments with the Capitolites. "See, this is where female customers are different from male ones. Both of them want satisfaction. For males this almost always equals sex. For females not necessarily. If you give them a good time, pleasure them in other ways, the evening might end without sex. And if you seriously think you won't be able to perform in bed, try to get her drunken before. Because the way I see it you'll be expected to accompany the customer to at least a meal where she can be seen with you, before you retire to some more private setting. In this case always make sure that her glass is filled, but don't get her so drunk that she can't pay the bill at the restaurant or sign the cheque or whatever… Then, when you are at her place, suggest a nightcap. And hope she passes out before you have shed all your clothes. Depending on the arrangement, you sleep next to her and the following morning flatter her, that you were so glad to have had her as your evening appointment, that she made things unforgettable for you. If you are expected to leave before the next morning, leave a note, telling her that you very much enjoyed the evening. And don't forget to mention that you hope for a repeat."

"Hm… getting them drunk… I think I can manage that. Will it be legit though?" Finnick mused.

"The way I see it," Evan said, "all the President cares for is the money he can make that way or the favours he can bestow through you on allies and friends. So as long as the person on the receiving ends of this bargain doesn't complain, you'll be fine. There is of course one downside."

"And this would be?"

"Getting someone drunk takes time. More so if the person is used to consuming at least moderate quantities of alcohol on a somewhat regular basis. So if you get a regular partying Capitolite as customer, you will have to find ways to drag out the public part of the engagement. You have to make the dinner last as long as possible. Perhaps even to the point where the waiters will already start cleaning up the place around you. Best way to achieve that is by being an interesting conversation partner. Let me hear your best tale-voice!"

"Tale-voice?"

"Tell me about District Four. What do you do with your time there? What is your favourite place? Though mind you, the most your customer will give you as a prompt is 'tell me about your life'." Evan breathed a sigh of relief as Finnick finally seemed to relax.

"Well, life as a victor is pretty calm. I mean, there's no more training to go to. I spend a lot of time at the beach to collect the shells for the decoration projects. Then I go to the respective building and start making the shell picture. And that's it pretty much."

Well, there was potential. But so far… "Pretty boring." Evan decided. "Not so much your life, but the presentation."

Finnick looked a bit depressed at that and a slightly panicked look was returning to his eyes.

"Let me show you. First I'll tell you the truth about District Five and then how I'd tell it to a Capitolite customer:

"District Five, especially right before the Games stinks to high heaven. That's because of the mountains of biomass we get delivered from District Ten to use as fuel for the power plants. Every open plain which is not a designated road or square is used for solar panels and instead of trees you get wind generator. Green is something rare to encounter in the district. It's pretty drab. The families with a better income might have tiny patches of gardens attached to their homes, but these only sport green in the spring when the vegetables are all leafy. Most of the district however live in crammed little houses, crooked, often patched, and in such a wild set-up that it's difficult to discern the official roads. Peacekeepers rarely venture into those poor areas of the district, only when unrest gets too high. In between there is something of a middle class, with homes in straight lines, though without gardens… but well, mostly the classes keep to themselves. Would you tell this a Capitolite? And mention that you lived in the lowest part of the rats' nest?"

Finnick instinctively shook his head.

"Now listen to this," Evan said, changing his voice slightly to a somewhat dreamy note. "Imagine rows upon rows of neat solar panels, all facing morning, to catch the first ray of light. It's shortly before dawn, but honestly it's my favourite time of day. All is quiet in the district. And then, to the East, the sun is slowly edging over the horizon. It's a majestic moment, as the thin tendrils of light stretch out to kiss the panels arching in the sun's direction. Then a glint, bright enough to make one squint and yet one is loath to miss this moment. The light flashes shortly, eases upwards, caresses the panel, coaxing it to life. And all at once, like a choir with a heavenly conductor, the whole field hums, vibrates with the very energy that feeds the district, feeds this nation. I rarely ever feel more alive than standing in the middle of this field, feeling the very energy of life around me waking up every panel. It's moments like these which makes me glad that I live in District Five."

"Definitely a difference," Finnick agreed.

"And nobody cares to know that I like this moment of dawn because it means my nightly work is done," Evan told him, his voice back to the plain normal tone. "Nor do they care for the fact that I'm out in the field because below the higher panels you can easily find a sheltered space where to perform business. And that I actually hate that first reflected glint on the panels, because it hurts my tired eyes."

"I noticed that you only focused on one moment and one aspect of the overall district," said Finnick.

Evan nodded. "It's easier to work with details. The wife of the owner of the solar power plant definitely was impressed."

"And…?"

"They were invited for dinner with the mayor. So my duties as escort encompassed only lunch and two hours after. A bit flattery, a bit awe, lots of conversation and at the end she said that she was glad that she had accompanied her husband. That's where the mayor's wife took over, leading her to their home where she could take a bath and refresh herself before dinner."

"Wouldn't that usually be a victor's duty in the district?" Finnick wondered.

"Only if it is requested ahead of time. Otherwise the victors only join them for cocktails before dinner as a relaxed get-together. At least that was how it was with that one visit." Evan shrugged. "Anyway, as you can see, it helps if you have a good tale-voice. It also helps to know about the preferences of your customers before you meet them. Then you can think up suitable topics ahead of time."

"But what if conversation is not enough?"

"Hope that they are attractive. Finnick, surely you have noticed girls… noticed how your body reacts to them? If the Capitolite is attractive, your body will react much the same way. Everything else should come natural. As for your inexperience… present them as a cute, yet sexy charm. I know you can do cute and sexy, I've seen you do this in your interview two years ago."

"And what of those crazy fashion addicts?" Despite showing that he certainly already felt much more reassured than he had been at the beginning of their conversation, there was still some lingering doubt.

"Focus on the one part you find attractive. Or close your eyes and envision someone attractive. When asked why you close your eyes, you can always say that this way, by feeling, you can memorize their body much better. They will feel flattered and everything is fine," Evan gave this last bit of advice.

"Okay… okay, I think I can do this. Or handle it. Or… well… at least not completely fail and be fed to the wolves."

Evan grinned. "Finnick, I think once you get over your initial fears, you will be alright. You might still hate it, but you will do what you have to do." It was, after all, what he had done. Though he omitted that the fears were still there sometimes, though well below the surface by now. Or that he saw those fears reflected in the face of some other young boy new to the business.

The victor nodded and turned to leave. "Thank you." And he was gone.

"No, thank you. And now off with you and earn me lots of sponsor money," Evan whispered with a slightly cheeky grin. Tomorrow he would speak with Alicia about watching out for Chalen Nimara.

* * *

 _Chalen Nimara, D8, 15Y_

When Chalen woke up the next morning, she was still shaken by what had happened at the parade. People had actually shouted her name, had cheered for her! It was definitely not what she had expected. The Capitolites had not even cheered for Cecilia during the parade last year, and Cecilia after all had had it in her to win the games.

Standing next to her in the chariot, Rodi had been just as stunned as she had been. But it had been also exhilarating. She could not have helped it, she had smiled broadly and waved her hand and, well, Rodi had done the same. Because cheers for Chalen were cheers for District 8, were cheers for him in some way, weren't they? And yet, Chalen had at that moment felt something shift in the relationship between her fellow tribute and herself. A distance, which had not been there during the train ride.

Given how close they were in age, and with both of them of an agreeable temper, their mentor Woof had suggested that they might try and stick things out together. Stemming from the same district, they could even share inside jokes to help them keep their sanity until the arena inevitably would break their alliance apart. And both had been somewhat inclined to follow this idea. Chalen had even allowed herself to feel comforted by the idea of not facing the other tributes all alone. After all, Rodi was strong…

But even before they had entered the suite which was designated to the group from District 8, Chalen had felt him distancing himself from her. He had barely spoken during dinner, and Woof's obvious delight at the fact that the crowd had known the name of one of his tributes, didn't help.

Lying in bed, Chalen told herself to be fair. After all, wouldn't she feel a bit put out if the crowd had chanted Rodi's name instead of hers? But she knew that she wasn't one to hold a grudge for long, so by breakfast she would have decided to make the best of the situation. Surely Rodi would be the same? Well, the only way to find out was to leave her room and join the others for breakfast.

"Good morning," she greeted the others politely and sat down in her chair.

"Good morning my dear," Quintilia greeted her with affected cheer. "How are you on this fine day? All excited about the training, aren't you? And how could you not be, after the welcome the Capitol gave you?"

Chalen carefully eyed Rodi and could see his face becoming stonier with every word their escort spoke. Why, o why couldn't this overdressed parrot be quiet? She nodded slightly in Quintilia's direction to shut her up and focussed on her breakfast. Unfortunately the escort blathered on and on about how taken the Capitol seemed to be with her, though Chalen noticed a slight line of uneasiness around her eyes. Before she could try and figure out what this was about, Rodi pushed his chair back and announced that he was done with breakfast and that he would wait in his room till it was time to head down for training.

Chalen was dismayed. It looked as if she had lost her first ally before she had even entered the training facilities, much less the arena.

"Don't worry too much about it," Woof advised her calmly. Chalen though wondered why he had not said something in Quintilia's direction, seeing that her babble was breaking up Woof's initial plan for the tributes he was mentoring. "He'll come around. And if not, well, there are twenty-two other tributes… surely there is another one willing to become your ally if that is what you want."

He spoke with so much certainty in his voice that Chalen wondered if he knew something she didn't. She was realistic enough to know that she was not what others usually looked for in an ally, if they were looking for an ally at all. While the Careers always stuck together, the other districts tended to tackle the arena on their own. Or did it only appear like that because their allies had been the ones killed in the Bloodbath? Because going by the way she felt, Chalen doubted that many fancied the thought of going into the arena without the idea of having a friend in there. Even if it was an illusion, which was to end soon enough with the death of one of them.

All too soon, and before she could ask Woof any of those questions which occupied her mind, she was told to get changed as it was time for the first training session. The whole way down to the facilities Rodi did not look at her once, making Chalen feel rather lost as they entered the huge gymnasium. A feeling, which increased only more so as the head trainer gave them the welcome speech once all tributes were assembled and the list of stations available was read out. First came weapons and to Chalen they sounded each deadlier than the one before. She seriously doubted she'd be able to learn how to handle any of them within the three days of training they were being granted. And there was no way she could imagine she could weave someone to death.

Of course Rodi headed for one of those weapon stations. After some consideration Chalen decided to try the plants station. She felt safer with survival. It was more in the direction of where she felt she had some talent. What had her grandmother said? That she had a good eye for details, both from work and from describing everything to her. And to recognize plants one had to be good with details, right?

To her dismay there weren't that many edible plants to memorize, but there were several close looking to confuse her. Before long she was joined by the little girl from District 5.

"Don't be so quick to dismiss that one," the girl said and pointed at Chalen's screen.

"But it's not edible," she said somewhat irritated.

"True," the girl shrugged. "But it looks like it's a close relative to plantain. In which case it's a plant good to know, as plantain can help with skin irritation, insect bites, or even with disinfecting wounds."

Chalen was impressed. And slightly depressed. It seemed that even a twelve-year-old was better prepared for the arena than she was. Although she already felt better than she had just this morning at breakfast, knowing now at least about the edible plants to expect in the arena.

"Why don't we check it?" the girl suggested. As Chalen did not know what the girl meant, she took over Chalen's screen and touched a small symbol with a question mark, which Chalen so far had completely ignored. "See, it's a plantago, which means it's member of the same family as the plantain. And… oh, look, it is useful for skin treatment," she exclaimed excitedly, having scrolled down the text which had popped up in an information box.

Chalen nodded, then chastised herself for not having looked at the information boxes before. What if she had memorized a plant as edible, only to have missed the information that it needed to be cooked and that raw it was rather poisonous? Determinedly she went back and dedicated herself to learning not only the plants, but also the correct use.

When she looked up again, the little girl was gone, now trying to master the art of making a fire. Chalen considered joining her for a moment, but then decided to head over to the knot-tying station. She wanted to do something which felt at least slightly familiar to her, before tackling a completely new skill.

Lunch came around and Chalen entered the dining hall apprehensively. She didn't fancy the idea of a solitary meal, but Rodi was busy both ignoring her and talking to the girl from District 12. Just as she was about to resign herself to her fate of sitting all by herself, the little girl from District 5 spotted her and waved at her, signalling for her to join her. Or rather them, seeing that she was sitting with her district partner. She shot a questioning look in his direction, but upon receiving a nod in reply, headed over to them.

"Hi, I'm Alicia. I forgot to introduce myself earlier," the little girl said with a slightly apologetic smile.

"I'm Chalen."

"Oh, we know," Alicia said impishly. "Couldn't miss it yesterday evening."

Chalen's face darkened.

"I'm Evan," the boy interrupted her thoughts and prevented her from dwelling on matters beyond her influence. "I've seen you earlier at the knots. So, is it true that all tributes from District Eight are good with traps, same as District Seven is always good with axes?"

Chalen's gaze involuntarily shot over to Rodi. "I don't know. Don't think so. I mean, there are lots of different professions in District Eight and not all have to do with yarn or even fabrics. I'm not so sure if someone sewing at a factory, doing the same seam over and over again, would know much about knot-tying and traps."

"They'd be better at stabbing needles at unsuspecting tributes?" Evan offered with a grin.

Chalen couldn't help smiling at this picture. "Maybe. Who knows, blow darts perhaps?"

"Nasty idea. Good thing then that you favour traps."

"Who knows…?" Chalen bantered, feeling some of the built-up tension seep away.

"How about we leave the blow darts to Alicia? As her mother's helper at the clinic, she'd at least know how to handle needles to sew up wounds."

"So that's how you knew about the plantain?" Chalen turned to the girl, who shyly nodded.

"I would call her my first-aid-kid, only she threatens to suddenly forget all about tying up a wound in the arena if I do so."

"That's one wound less already, I have to care about", Alicia said, showing that she was not all timid.

Chalen was surprised. From the way these two talked, it was obvious that they planned to stick together in the arena, which was rare for someone as old as Evan – if she recalled it correctly he was a year or two older than her – to care for a little girl such as Alicia. And yet there was a sincere trust in Alicia which told her that apparently Evan was true about his offer of alliance to the girl and not doing it to lull her in false security, betraying her the moment they were in the arena.

"What do you say," Evan again interrupted her thoughts, "stick around with us? Not only for meals here, I mean, but also in the arena?"

Painful coughs fought their way up her throat when Chalen choked on the spoonful of soup she had just taken. Alliance? They were offering her to join their alliance? Why? They barely knew her. Confusion was written clearly on her face, causing Evan to elaborate: "I myself am not too bad at hand-to-hand combat; Alicia is great when it comes to first-aid, and you are quite good with traps I daresay. So, if we get us another tribute with some decent weapon skills, combined we make up one tribute good enough to match those Careers. I reckon we shouldn't do too bad then… What do you think?"

Still surprised by the offer, Chalen pondered the suggestion nonetheless. Now that it was obvious that Rodi would go his own way, it wouldn't be too bad to have someone with combat skills around and first aid skills were always handy. But… "Won't we be targeted, if we form an alliance too obviously? Especially when we invite a fourth person as well?" She voiced her doubts.

"True enough," Evan conceded. "I guess to pull it off convincingly, we'll have to act as if our negotiations for an alliance have all failed. Never train at the same station as another of us, demonstratively leave a station if another one approaches… Even eating meals separately."

Chalen nodded. It sounded like a good plan, despite the fact that she certainly didn't like the idea of eating lunch alone any more than she had today when she had entered the dining hall.

Next to her Alicia looked really dismayed.

"Don't worry, princess," Evan tried to reassure her. "The two of us will still talk, only we will have to limit it to the suite. But this way we will fool the others, especially the Careers. And we'll have more opportunities to observe the other tributes, learn what stations they visit, how well they do there…"

"But how would I pass information to you and you to me about what we learn about the other tributes?" Chalen was intrigued by the idea.

"The serving and clearing carts. We could time it in such a way as to accidentally meet there… it should be enough for a few quick and whispered words." Evan suggested after a moment of contemplation.

Chalen carefully took another spoonful of her soup, mulling the proposition over in her head. Finally she swallowed and nodded. "I'm in."

They had finished the meal with lots of noise and clatter and disgusted faces to allow her to make an exit designed to have everyone believe that whatever they had attempted to forge in terms of alliance hadn't worked out.

The security of an alliance however had given Chalen the strength to approach the weapon stations. Maybe she found one where she had a talent with. Good enough perhaps so they could keep their alliance at the current number of three. But spears were definitely not her forte – though she would know how to rig the bundle of them up as a weaving loom in no time – and archery was something she was soon convinced took years to master. Seeing Evan at the hand-to-hand combat station, Chalen decided to test their alliance a bit and approached. As agreed, Evan promptly left, shooting her an icy glare. Chalen smirked slightly, then turned to one of the trainers of the station. Soon she was sweating profusely, but while she was no good at landing any significant blows, it turned out that she was rather good at dodging, as the instructor told her encouragingly.

Feeling rather good about herself, she completely ignored Rodi as they headed upstairs to their suite and went directly to take a shower. As she stood under the hot spray however, first thoughts of tentative doubt crept up in her mind. Had Evan's offer been genuine? Or had he just offered the alliance so as to sound her out about her abilities and keep her from attacking him and his 'first-aid-kid'? After all, Rodi had dropped her as an ally quick enough, despite having sounded rather sincere on the train as well. Thoughts of Rodi brought back the questions which had occupied her at breakfast time and she resolved to speak with Woof about them. She quickly let the bathroom dry her – the Capitol technology was truly marvellous – and dressed, then hesitatingly entered the living room. Thankfully Rodi was nowhere in sight, but Woof sat on one of the sofas as if he had been waiting for her. He even patted the seat next to him. It was all the invitation Chalen needed. Without much prompting from her mentor, she told him about her day. "But what if I made a huge mistake, agreeing to this alliance? Only to be betrayed again?" she concluded.

Woof smiled. "I don't think you'll be betrayed by this young man."

"Evan," Chalen provided.

The former victor nodded. "See, he would only be hurting himself by being untrue to you." Noticing her confused look, he continued: "It's rare for me to discuss this with a tribute, but in order for you to understand I have to tell you that you have attracted quite a lot of sponsors."

"Me?" Chalen squeaked in surprise.

"The parade yesterday was already an indication. If people at the Capitol know a tribute's name, it's likely they'll also put some money forward to sponsor them. In your case the whole fashion industry seems to know your worth and they try to provide you with enough sponsor money so you can come out of the arena alive. It's only the first day of training, but I've already been presented with sponsor money for you amounting to more than I sometimes had for two tributes for the whole games."

Chalen was stunned.

"So, you see, apparently this Evan is quite good at reading people. He deduced that you would have sponsors, and naturally you'd be inclined to share you sponsor gifts with your allies. In return he offers the little girl's first aid skills and his own."

"Hand-to-hand combat." Chalen said.

Woof smirked. "That's what he might say out loud, but I think his ability to read people is worth more. Why, he had only the Capitol's reactions during the parade to go by and was not even privy to one of the scathing phone calls Quintilia received over reaping you."

Sensing a bit of fun about to be shared, Chalen waited with a barely hidden smile. And Woof did not disappoint her. "Apparently all her fashion-addicted friends think that she should have known about your invaluable services to the fashion industry. And as such they would have expected her to call out any other name but yours. Because surely, there's a Mary Smith in any district, isn't there?"

"Let me guess – all her friends didn't know about me either, till whatever the fashion industry did to promote my case told them so." Chalen could only shake her head at the absurdity of the situation.

Woof nodded with a grin.

"Is that why she is so sickeningly sweet and attentive and I guess in her way encouraging to me?" she asked.

Her mentor nodded again. "Her friends are putting quite some pressure on her. And as long as you don't resent her behaviour, I don't see the need to make her life more miserable by curbing her efforts."

"Well… while hers is certainly not my style, I kind of appreciate the intent. Rodi though resents it." Chalen was still torn over Rodi's behaviour. On the one hand he had made it clear that as tributes they were each on their own and Chalen was willing to accept that, but on the other hand, she felt she owed him at least a modicum of loyalty since he was from the same district as she was.

Woof sighed. "I'm afraid that by his actions, Rodi has placed himself in a position, where he is mostly on his own. And I'm not sure he will ever get a chance to realize it."

Chalen's heart skipped a beat. "But… surely with there being so much sponsor money available, you can…"

"Chalen," Woof interrupted gently, "the money the sponsors offered was specifically for you. Only in the case that you die before Rodi could I use it on him. And I seriously hope that you don't consider this as an option, that you go and sacrifice yourself for him."

She shook her head. She might feel some loyalty towards Rodi, but it certainly didn't go so far that she would put his life before her own.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Electra was hungry. Ravenous even. Yes, they never lacked food at the Capitol, but what if one lacked the time to consume said food? Dinner yesterday had consisted of a cup of coffee, or make that five, to keep her going as she checked the new force field emitters. Around the time the tributes had arrived at the station, news had reached the Gamemakers' hub that about a third of the emitters in the arid part of the arena had collapsed. They had personnel close by to replace them, yes, but once the cause came in, it was more about using a different configuration. Despite the fact that they were already employing the type of emitters they had used for any coast line arena which took the salt water of the ocean into consideration, they had underestimated the corrosiveness of the drier environment they were using this year. So the emitters had to be additionally coated, changing their configuration, which meant that once the coat was dried and the emitters in place, they had to recalibrate the whole force field. Which took them well into the night. And by the time they went home to catch a few hours of sleep, she had simply been too tired to think of a past-midnight snack. She had even skipped breakfast in favour of an extra hour of sleep. So when the buffet of snacks was brought in for the elevenses the posh and pampered of the Capitol so enjoyed, she was one of the first to load a plate.

Flavius, her colleague, eyed her with mild disgust. "You know that we are here to assess the tributes and not broadcast gluttony?" He served himself with a delicate selection which left enough space on the plate for one to make out the décor of the porcelain, quite in contrast to Electra's plate.

"I can assess the tributes and eat at the same time," Electra shot back.

"Well then," he took her up on the challenge, "what do you make of this year's crop?"

Electra let her eyes sweep over the gymnasium below them, while polishing off small triangles of grilled goat cheese. "Alliances. Quite a few of them from what I see. Though for once all the other tributes seem to avoid the Big Alliance like a plague. I don't see anyone holding out or showing off in hopes of getting in with them, although everyone knows that the Big Alliance will go a long way with all the sponsors they have."

"Well, they won't be the only ones this year." Flavius said, looking pointedly in the direction of the girl from District 8, who was now headed for the knot-tying station.

"True. And there are those who know that as well. See?" Electra pointed with a fork in the direction of the boy from District 5, who was watching the girl attentively. "He even had his district partner approach the girl earlier."

"Think he's sticking with the little kid?"

"Might be… I doubt he sent the girl over to District Eight only to be rid of her for a while."

"Quite the strategist then," Flavius conceded. "The trainers' assessment might tell us more about other talents he's harvesting from among the tributes."

"Keep in mind though that we are only to assess individual tributes, not their alliances as a whole." Electra cautioned him.

"I know, though it would be interesting to see for once how all of them fared were their alliances to survive the Bloodbath."

"Attrition warfare most likely," she offered. "Most alliances have at least one strategist, much like the boy from District Five. They would build themselves forts, most likely even evading some of our traps or using them as defence, and the games would drag on and on until the sponsor money dries up and the President has all our heads on a platter. You know that all the sponsor money left when both tributes of a district die reverts to the Hunger Games fund. Imagine us having to file for bankruptcy because there's no sponsor money left for us even before the games have ended?"

Flavius looked decidedly uneasy. Electra was not sure whether it was because she had so thoroughly shredded his idea or because of her blunt speech regarding their likely demise at the President's orders if they failed to raise enough money through the Games to fund the next year. "So, what do you think of the girl from District Eight?" she asked, offering him to tread safe ground again.

"Nothing really impressive. Sure, she seems to know a bit about knots, but what good is a trap if you lack the means to make it count? No use of tying up the big bad guy from District One only for his allies to be able to cut him free again."

"We'll see… who knows what a sponsor sent knife in her hands will allow her to accomplish in the arena."

"Keep in mind though that we are only to assess the tributes, during training, and not their potential sponsor gifts," Flavius echoed Electra's earlier words and they both laughed lightly.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. The poll is now closed, but for anyone who missed out on it, I'll most likely do another round once training is complete.


	16. Chapter 14 - Training: Impressions

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 14: Training – It's all about impressions**

 _Woof Rowth, Mentor District 8_

With his tributes safely off for the second day of training, Woof made his way to the mentors' lounge. Less posh than the sponsor lounge, it was still comfortable enough at this stage to allow the former victors to meet for some small talk or even catching up in a relaxed atmosphere before putting on their 'please sponsor my tributes'-smiles to join potential sponsors for lunch. The feeling of their lounge would change though in a few days, when it was converted into the hub which allowed them to monitor their tributes, send out gifts when appropriate and affordable, and in general just watch the screens with anxious anticipation. For now, though, the coffee pot and the breakfast tray were the focus of the room.

As he entered, Woof spied Balraj Hammond at this aforementioned centre of attention. He made his way over to him. "Congratulations to Evan for having secured Chalen as ally," he said quietly, while pouring himself a cup.

Bal grinned. "Hope you are not sorry for Rodi being left out?"

Woof shook his head, a trace of sadness in his eyes. "Rodi had his chance and blew it. He doesn't seem to regret it, though, and for that I'm glad. Instead he seems to be rather taken by the girl from District Twelve. In fact I was hoping to catch Haymitch here before he is too drunk to talk to potential sponsors. Because if he does not secure some for the girl, the two of them will have to rely entirely on what they find in the arena. I tried my best yesterday, but whenever I attempted to stir the conversation in the direction of backing up Rodi, all sponsors swiftly returned to the subject of Chalen."

"Good luck with Haymitch then," Balraj said, not too convinced that Woof would succeed. "Though you might have a chance if the girl managed to make an impression with him." Letting his gaze sweep through the lounge, there was however no trace of the mentor from District 12 to be seen. "Looks like you are too early."

"Well, then I'll wait," Woof shrugged. What else was there to do for him if he wanted to ensure that Rodi had at least a fleeting chance?

"How about you tell me in the meantime where the beauteous Cecilia is?" Bal asked with a grin. "I imagine that quite a few people here at the Capitol were disappointed when only you emerged from the train."

"She had to stay at home as per the President's orders," Woof replied and backed away from the coffee pot to allow for a little more privacy in their conversation. "Clever girl she is, she found a way to escape at least some of the years," he said in a low voice, not wanting to give away his fellow victor's ingenious plan to any of the listening devices the President had had most likely installed in the lounge.

Balraj raised an eyebrow.

"Did you know that there is a law stating that a child is citizen of the district they are born in? It includes the Capitol. And well… stress can result in early labours for a pregnant woman."

A low whistle escaped Bal. "I had seen at the recap of the Reaping that she seemed to have gained some weight, but I put it down for having had more and better food for a year. So… she is pregnant?"

"And far along enough that the Capitol's doctors could and would have to save the child."

Bal did a quick mental calculation. Cecilia must have gotten pregnant almost immediately after her Victory Tour. Or perhaps even before, having been told what was expected of her during her short visit to the Capitol on the tour. It was really clever, because there was no way the Capitol would want the child of a district citizen, even if said citizen was a victor of the Hunger Games, to become a citizen of the Capitol. It would result in lots of complications, least of all the question where mother and child would live. Yes, on the downside, Cecilia would expose her children to the chance of being reaped for the Hunger Games, but without the extra slips stemming from having to take out tesserae, enough food on their table to ensure they were healthy and strong and perhaps even some discreet training, their chances would be in every way better than those of any ordinary child in their district. So to the victor of the 66th Hunger Games it was a risk worth taking.

At that moment Haymitch Abernathy entered and Woof quickly excused himself from Balraj. He swiftly walked over to the mentor from District 12, who had headed for the coffee pot. Not that coffee was really on the mentor's mind, judging by the large amount of liquid he added to his cup from a hip flask, as Woof noted with barely concealed dismay. Well, he had promised himself that he would at least try. For Rodi's sake.

* * *

 _Rodi Kozen, D8, 16Y_

Rodi woke up frustrated. Not only with the Capitol, but also with himself. Yes, it had hurt to realize that for some unfathomable reason all the people at the parade had shouted his district partner's name while none had shouted his. Yet, he should have been glad that next to the Career Districts, theirs was the only one which had elicited a notable reaction from the Capitolites. And the reaction actually had stemmed from a current tribute and had not been carried over from last year's victory. But, well, deep down he had to confess to himself that he had expected that if at all, the Capitol would take notice of him and not the slight girl next to him. After all, wasn't he the more promising tribute? All the work at the station had given him broad shoulders and muscles, which, while not as impressive as those of the guys from the Career Districts, were still nothing to scoff at. It should get him noticed, or so he had thought. Well, there was still training, which was set to begin today, and the of course the training scores. And he would make sure that he got noticed there.

It was his need to shine, along with the fact that he begrudged Chalen her success with the Capitol to some degree, which had him frustrated with himself. As part of a large family, he was used to being patient, to giving way to a younger sibling, whose needs were more pressing than his own. So why did he feel so different now? Was it because at home he had known that his parents cared for him, even if the youngest took up most of their time right then? That once the little ones were in bed he would get the attention they had not been able to give him earlier? Was it because they were family and not Capitolites, who would cheer for his death much the same way they'd cheer for his victory, as long as it kept them entertained? Was it because he had actually thought he might stand a chance at these games and win, only to now find out that a girl half his size ruined his chances to get sponsors? If anyone thought about sponsoring District 8, they would now think of sponsoring Chalen. And while he might benefit from people sponsoring her if he was her ally, it rankled with him. Having contributed to the family's income for so many years, it felt wrong for him to accept money he didn't earn himself. So if these people didn't want to sponsor him for his own sake, he didn't want any sponsor money meant for Chalen. Although such a stance would in all likelihood hurt his own prospects in the long run, he could not make himself jump over his own shadow in this matter. As a consequence he was all the more determined to earn an impressive training score and make people notice him, and of course sponsor him.

Unfortunately their escort's mindless blather and their mentor's silence didn't seem to include any encouraging note for him during breakfast. Thank you very much! But well, perhaps it was for the best. This way he'd not feel so bereft of support once he entered the arena, where everyone was on their own, alliance or no alliance.

Ten o'clock announced the beginning of the first day of training. As Rodi listened carefully to the Head Trainer listing the various stations, he resolved to try out weapons first. He felt that these were more suited to his goal of making an impression. Yes, survival was important as well, and he might check out those tomorrow or the day after. But in the end, if you only knew survival skills, you were still doomed to die. And in the worst case he could always use his newfound weapon skills to kill other tributes for their supplies. Deep down he felt sick at this particular thought, but he'd be a fool not to consider the supplies other tributes might have and which he might need.

Eyeing the weapon stations he saw a slender girl at one of the stations, trying to swing a huge mace. Apparently he was not the only one who wanted to make an impression. But just at that moment, the girl swayed, caught by the momentum of the weapon which was obviously too heavy for her to wield properly. However before she could completely loose the control over her weapon and fall down, most likely injuring her severely in the process, Rodi had sprinted over and grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her. "Careful!" he whispered while the girl blushed.

Rodi was relieved. Apparently he had not yet lost his humanity completely.

The girl had collected herself and placing the mace on the floor moved away from him. She turned around to face him. Out of the corner of the eye, Rodi caught glimpse of the district number pinned on her back: 12. "Thank you, but that was quite unnecessary," she hissed bravely.

Rodi smirked. "If you say so." And he tipped his imaginary hat.

The girl rolled her eyes at his antics, then turned away to pick a lighter version of the deadly spiked weapon.

He had to admire her. She certainly was determined. As for himself, he could not picture himself clubbing people to death with a mace, so he moved on in search of a different weapon, one which suited him more. Observing several of the other tributes at the various stations he soon ruled out anything which required throwing with precision. He could possibly throw someone down in hand-to-hand combat, as this resembled hoisting sacks the most. But it didn't require the precision needed for knife-throwing or spears or archery. Eventually he picked swords. Somehow he could picture himself, traipsing through the arena, a mighty broadsword sheathed in a scabbard on his back, to be drawn in the moment of need… Fanciful, yes, but well… it was at least a more positive thought than sneaking up on sleeping tributes, slitting their throats and getting away with their supplies. The broadsword was more honourable.

Listening closely to the instructions of the trainer, Rodi lifted the heavy weapon with both hands and moved it slowly through the stances described. Next to him a girl about his age was hacking away furiously with a shortsword, oblivious to the trainer's advice on how to improve with this weapon.

"Very good," his own instructor complimented his movements. "Always remember, this weapon is a cutting weapon, not a thrusting weapon. Now try a horizontal swipe." And he demonstrated how to hold the arms and move the weapon.

Rodi obediently followed.

The instructor nodded. "And now combine it with the first stance."

It took Rodi a while to get the two different movements together properly, but once he caught on, he felt good. Involuntarily his eyes searched the room for the girl from District 12, to see if she was watching him. She had by now left the mace station and had moved to one of the survival stations, but he caught the short glimpse she threw in his direction. He couldn't exactly explain why he wanted her to notice him with the swords but something in her eyes, her mien had touched him. The Careers milling about the various weapon stations, with the clear intention of intimidating the other tributes with their deadly skills, were less impressed by the beginner's lesson he was receiving as their glances in his direction showed. But Rodi did not care about them. Even if he proved to be exceptionally talented with the sword and by some miracle they offered him to join their alliance, he would decline. There was no honour among the Careers. The majority of them might make it to the last eight, only for them to reveal their backstabbing nature then. And he had no wish to become the pawn sacrifice of their alliance.

He turned his attention back to his sword lessons and began to enjoy himself immensely as he became more familiar with the weapon.

"If you want, we can try a bit of how to parry different weapons after lunch," the trainer suggested when they were nearing break time, glad to have such a dedicated student.

Rodi nodded. He was already looking forward to it.

He was among the first to enter the dining hall. He quickly surveyed the room, then saw the girl from District 12 at one of the carts with food trays. Without thinking things through, he waited till she was seated, then grabbed one of the trays without so much as looking at it – he was really lucky that it was only the beginning of lunch, else he might have ended up with a tray full of dirty dishes – and walked over to her. "Mind if I sit with you?" he asked.

The girl eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. This was invitation enough for Rodi.

"How did it go with the mace after I left?" he asked.

She pondered his question, unsure whether to say the truth, embellish her talents, or not reply at all. However, having seen him with the swords and having had him witness her first disastrous attempt with the mace, she eventually settled for a wry grin. "Guess my chances are much better killing people with grass blades."

"A plant-fighter," he nodded. "My little sister Melanie would love to hear about your adventures. A plant-fighter would be just the kind of hero for her. And that the plant-fighter is actually a girl, would seal the deal."

This elicited a real smile from her. "You have a sister?" she asked and he could hear that she was glad that he had not made fun of her idea of using grass blades as a weapon.

"A sister and two brothers," he said. "What about you?"

"Three brothers, two sisters and one more due to arrive about a month after the games have finished."

Rodi couldn't help his eyes bulging slightly at the thought of so many mouths to feed. Even with both his parents working full time and him working part time and taking out tesserae, money was always tight. But with so many siblings, he expected several of them to be quite young and with another babe to arrive soon, it was obvious the mother could not work full time. His heart went out for her as it was obvious to him that she pulled more than her full weight in this family. And it impressed him. He liked her dedication to her siblings which was obvious from the warmth with which she mentioned them. "I'm Rodi, by the way," he said, not wanting a long stretching silence to pop up.

"Linley."

"So, do you, too, tell your siblings stories?" Rodi tried to keep the conversation going. "Mine are always begging me for more if I make it home from work in time for their bedtime."

She shook her head. "Too busy. If I tell them things, it's about which plants I know on the meadow to be edible, or how to grow the vegetables in the garden."

"So you are really good with plants? No wonder you'd prefer grass blades as weapons." He surmised.

"I checked out the plants section earlier. Not that much to master. I wonder what this means for the arena," she said.

"No meadow?" he volunteered.

"As if I'd be so lucky," she growled. "I have a mentor not worth speaking of, a ridiculous escort, a pampered boy as district partner, so tell me: Why would the Gamemakers suddenly be all benevolent and gift me with an arena where I'd think I'd actually have a chance?"

Rodi couldn't help noticing the bitterness in her voice. "Well, aren't all escorts ridiculous?" he asked, trying to cheer her up a bit. "Mine is only focusing on my district partner and our mentor is letting her. I'm not sure how much attention I'll get from him either."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Ignore them. At least the escort and my district partner. She is not too bad," he hastily added, "but I feel better on my own."

"And for the arena?" Linley probed.

"Survive? Same as your plan, I dare say," Rodi offered vaguely.

"I plan on surviving training first." She sighed, recalling the mace-incident.

"And then the interview," Rodi went on. "Hey, perhaps you could talk to the stylist and suggest he or she dresses you up as plant-fighter? So that at least you make an impression during the interview. If only as super hero of goodnight stories for kids?"

"They'd only mistake me for a tribute from District Seven," Linley said a bit despondently.

"Being mistaken as a tribute from another district might not be too bad," Rodi interjected. "I wouldn't mind one of those knight costumes from District Two from the parade."

"It would at least go well with the sword I saw you with earlier."

Rodi had an idea. Yes, it was a crazy idea, but somehow he wanted to keep in touch with Linley. Not just for lunch break, but also beyond. "What about forming a secret fighting group? The plant fighter and the knight?"

"The knight and the plant fighter… it sounds better this way," Linley said, while pondering his idea. "Though I thought you said you feel better on your own?"

"Maybe... maybe it also only relates to my district partner. And as a knight, I have to be gallant. So it would definitely be the plant fighter and the knight," Rodi grinned.

"And what adventures would those super fighters have?"

"Well, they live in this enchanted place, where everything is possible. The knight wears a chain-mail made of seaweed, but because it was blessed by the plant fighter with a special charm of nature, it's even better than the best iron plate armour. In return, the knight cut several tall stalks of grass and because they were cut by such a sharp blade, the grass blades become sharp as well. As these two heroes walk through the enchanted place, they come upon a group of nasty robbers. Always ones to protect the weak, the two super fighters decide to teach those robbers a lesson. At first the robbers don't take them for serious, especially not the grass blades of the plant fighter. But as the first robber receives the first cut from those blades, their tune swiftly changes. And when the robbers find that none of their weapons can penetrate the seaweed chain-mail, they hastily give tail. And so the two super fighters are able to gather up all the treasures the robbers had kept for themselves," he swiftly wove a tale which had just enough truth in it to make the smile on Linley's face dim with an edge of sadness.

"Do you really think we would stand a chance against the Careers?" she asked quietly.

"I'm not prepared to give up. And if seaweed is what I have to fight with, then I'll do that. And somehow I can't see you give up either." Rodi said matter-of-factly.

"Well, no, but it would be nice to have something better to fight with."

"There's always good stuff in the Cornucopia."

Linley frowned. "Do you really think you'd have a chance there?"

"I don't know. I'm quite strong. And if I get my hands on a decent weapon… I guess, it also depends on the arena. If it offers enough alternatives in terms of weapons, I might prefer to run."

"I think I'll run," Linley offered. "I can always try and sneak back later and see if I can snatch something from the Careers while they are out hunting other tributes."

"Nice idea. But they'll probably leave a guard behind."

"That's what I'll have a knight with a magic seaweed chain-mail for," she said with a grin. "With some diversion, the two of us, I think, can take on a single Career and steal something from them."

"So… say we learn about camouflage?" Rodi really liked the idea. Stealing from the Careers sounded a lot like what a hero in the good night stories he told his siblings would do. Then he remembered having been promised a lesson on parrying by the instructor. His face fell a bit.

When he told Linley, she said: "Well, a knight certainly needs to know about swords. And maybe we get lucky and the guard has a sword. Then it would be handy to know how to wield it, should we be able to wrest it from him. We can always try camouflage tomorrow. I'll scout the other survival stations this afternoon."

Rodi nodded, glad that their alliance seemed to have a chance.

* * *

 _Linley Johnson, D12, 16Y_

Linley stood alone in the elevator, riding from the top level of the tower that was the training centre down to the gymnasium. She eyed her reflection in the smooth surface of the opposite wall and couldn't help but notice that she looked as lonely as she felt. At home, there'd always be her family or in school her class mates around, but here… Joseph was still at breakfast, speaking about one thing or another with this stupid Effie Trinket, who for some reason seemed to think Joseph had a great future in the games. Honestly, Linley doubted that. From what she had observed on the train, Jospeh was a well-behaved, nice guy, but rather naïve, having led so far a comparatively pampered life. She doubted he knew how to deal with hunger, how to ignore its gnawing presence, the growling stomach, the slight despair creeping over one completely. Yes, on a subconscious level he seemed to know about his own chances of survival in the deadly arena, evidence of which was a lost and sad look now and then as well as a betraying red rim about his eyes. But then he would cheer up again, and well… think of the whole thing as a game. It annoyed Linley to no end. Even her brothers would be better prepared for the games than Joseph. Not that she wished for either Jurian or Kereth to be here with her, but well, she certainly wouldn't waste her time with her district partner. Unfortunately he seemed to have gotten the full attention of their escort and as their mentor, while unforgettable in his own way, was of no help either, Linley knew she was on her own in this. For a brief moment she had considered asking the stylist for some advice, but this was only proof of how lonely she was, because all the stylist cared about was speculating when the stylist of District 1 would retire and what his chances were to get this prestigious position.

Focussing back on the training awaiting her at the end of the all too brief elevator ride, Linley forced herself to put on at least a mask of calmness. She instinctively knew that if she appeared lonely, she'd also appear weak and this would have her pegged as early victim for the Careers. So if she wanted to have at least a fleeting chance at these games, she'd have to convince the others that she could deal with the situation. Better yet, make an impression that she was no easy prey. To this end she headed straight for the deadliest looking weapon she could see at first glance, once the head trainer finished her welcoming speech. Unfortunately the mace she had picked up proved to be too heavy for her. Cursing softly under her breath, she forced her unwilling body to swing the spiked and chained ball nevertheless. Only to nearly humiliate herself by falling over.

That was when she felt steadying hands on her shoulders. The whispered word "Careful" sent shivers down her spine. Expecting it to be a Career who was having fun at her expense, she pulled herself together quickly and told him where to shove it. Well, with more polite words, but he got the meaning. To her surprise the boy however was not a Career, but the tribute from District 8. Yet his grip had been as strong as any she expected from a Career.

As the morning passed on she couldn't help but look over at him from time to time. He looked good with the sword. Strong. Strong enough perhaps to even make it into the Career Alliance. And while she was glad for him that he would never be as lonely as she felt, she couldn't get rid of a certain pang of envy. Alliance – that was another thing which wouldn't happen to her. Same as encouragement or sponsors.

Lunch however changed everything. Even if she had tried to suppress a smile, it would have been impossible. Rodi… Her mind kept chanting the name over and over again. Linley knew she was being silly, but she couldn't help it. Rodi was indeed very much like a knight, even if his armour might turn out to be seaweed after all and nothing shining. Much like during the morning, all through the afternoon, she kept throwing glances in his direction as he received further lessons in how to handle a sword. She herself mastered the art of fire-making, making shelter of almost everything and something which struck her as odd: How to handle a special type of water bottles. Most tributes simply would have waited till after the training and discussed the meaning of the bottles with their mentors then, but that was not an option for Linley. So she spent extra time to memorize everything about the bottles so that she could describe them to Rodi the next day when they would spend time at the camouflage station. Maybe together they could solve this puzzle, or he could ask his mentor and share the information with her the day after. It certainly was slow going this way and it felt a bit like Chinese whispers, but what was she to do? And with the limited training time, it felt easier to share her discovery with him than have him learn for himself at the station. After all, that was their deal: She would learn about survival this afternoon, tomorrow they would both cover camouflage and at lunch discuss what to do next.

Camouflage this year consisted of working roots and dried grass along with the odd stick now and then into types of netting which could then be thrown over oneself for concealment. Having visited the shelter making station the previous day, Linley found this slightly similar. Still something felt off to her. "Next to no leaves," she said quietly, pointing at the material available to make the fake capes.

"Doesn't look good for a super fighter whose weapons are plants," Rodi said with a small grin, but then frowned. "Rather dry material," he observed.

"What do you think, dry arena?" Linley asked.

He shook his head. "Remember, they have to give the tributes a chance to survive without sponsors. It will be hard, yes, but it has to be possible. So there will be water…"

"But I fear that there's something wrong with it as well. The water bottles… it's not simply filling them, adding some purification medium, wait and that's it." Linley told him about her discovery the day before. "One had a piston you had to push down. It was kind of hard to move against the resistance the water presented. But with enough strength it would present you with drinkable water almost instantly. The other was made up of four compartments, separated by a layer of something white… The lowest compartment also contained a block of what looked like salt. Here you didn't need any physical strength for operation, all you'd have to do was fill the bottle and wait. The downside of this bottle is, waiting time is an hour and only the water in the uppermost compartment would be of drinkable quality."

"Sounds like a filter system," Rodi mused. "I think we have something similar in District Eight. At least I remember helping unload a train where the containers were labelled with 'filter pellets' and they were destined for the main water pump. And with the quality of the lake that is supplying water for the whole district being so poor, it makes only sense to filter it first. So I guess you are right, there's certainly something up with the water."

"If something's not right with the water, what about trees?" Linley inquired. "These twigs, they don't look like they belong to a tree."

"Of course they do not," a haughty young voice was heard from behind them.

They turned around and saw the little boy from District 7 standing there.

"Well, if you say so," Rodi said with a shrug and Linley likewise turned back to focus again on improving the weaving of her camouflage net. There was something about the kid's look which said that while his knowledge about trees and perhaps axes might come in handy, he would also spell trouble. There was an edge of arrogance in his whole posture which quenched any urge to protect the young and helpless in his case.

Eventually tired of being ignored, the boy stomped away.

"So, most likely no trees?" Linley asked, picking up their examination again.

"Shrubs then," Rodi nodded. "And enough to provide sufficient fuel for fires for the nights. They won't want the tributes to simply freeze to death."

"Perhaps it's warm enough at nights that we won't need fires," Linely mused. "So we'd only need fires to cook."

"Let's keep our fingers crossed."

As she was weaving the material available, an idea began to form in her mind, which she decided to discuss with Rodi at lunch. Already the discussion about material and water had given her a bit of confidence, something she desperately needed.

Grabbing a lunch tray each, they waited for the Careers to claim a table and then chose one as far away as possible.

"What's up?" Rodi asked. "You've been lost in thoughts for the last half hour or so."

Linley took a deep breath, then, checking that nobody was within earshot if she kept her voice low enough, said: "I've been pondering weapons. I don't think there's any weapon I'll be particularly talented with. Not like you with the sword."

Rodi tried to downplay his talent since compared to the Careers he was still a raw beginner, but Linley was already continuing. "Then I realized that weapon skills don't matter if we had a way to incapacitate an attacking tribute. With what we figured out about trees, I think there's next to no way we can have them dangling upside down from a sturdy branch after they stepped into a trap. The material at the camouflage station suggests that digging a trap and covering it with dry leaves is not likely either."

He nodded in agreement. "So you suggest we check out the trap station next?"

"Well, I was thinking about creating fake traps to make an approaching tribute veer from the straight path and then throw a concealed net on him. A sturdy camouflage net, weighed down by something heavy, thrown over the tribute would give us an edge in taking him or her down." Linley elaborated.

"It might also come in handy with our idea of sneaking up on the Career guard when the knight and the plant fighter come to steal supplies," Rodi said appreciatively.

"It might even cause the pack of them to be confused if one of them was caught under such a net, should they come upon us on one of their hunting trips. Surely they'd stop and help that one struggling free, giving us a chance to escape."

Rodi nodded. "But only with your nets. Mine at the camouflage station could have been ripped apart by the softest breeze."

Linley smiled. Rodi had really tried his best, but to twist the different materials in such a way that they did not fall apart instantly again was not really his forte. Hers on the other hand… "So, how about you try out another weapon so that we can rely on more than just the sword, while I see about making trapping nets?"

"I think I should first go to traps with you. Even if I can't make such good nets, I could still learn how to create the fake traps you mentioned." He offered.

She nodded and smiled at him. It really felt good to have someone to rely on. And when he returned the smile, Linley felt another of those warm shivers run down her spine, same as yesterday when he had kept her upright at the mace station.

Building traps was not much to Rodi's liking, Linley could see later this afternoon. The basics he had easily grasped, but after that, it was back to tying knots, trying to make all kind of material which had the slightest resemblance to rope take on a form it seemed to resist.

Linley finally shoved him away with a friendly smile. "How about you try out something we can do once we caught someone in our marvellous traps?"

"Hm…" Rodi pondered this. "We might need to know how to tackle down the trapped tribute, should we find ourselves without a weapon."

Linley nodded.

"Hand-to-hand combat for me then." He grinned, obviously much happier with this option before him. "Wait for me though when training is over. We can take an elevator together and decide which stations to hit tomorrow before we face the private sessions in the afternoon."

That night, as she lay in bed, Linley couldn't stop herself from sporting one of those silly grins she knew were unbecoming for a tribute about to face death in the arena. But she couldn't help it. Of all the things which she had imagined about the time spent at the Capitol, the last had been the possibility of finding someone she would fall in love with. Someone who would even return her feelings. And yet this was what she thought she and Rodi had.

When she had returned from the training that afternoon, their mentor had been lying sprawled on one of the sofas while Effie had been waiting for them at the door. Well, she had not been waiting for her, but for Joseph, but honestly, Linley was past caring. As she crossed the living room though, Haymitch had caught eye of her expression and with a frustrated "Bah!" had reached for his flask again. Apparently he was not impressed with what he saw, but again, she was past caring here as well. All she cared for at that moment was the wonderful tingly feeling evoked by Rodi pressing her hand with his before he departed four floors below her own.

And all she cared for, as she lay awake in the darkness, was if she should be so bold as to let him know about her feelings in return. What would he say if she mustered all her courage and kissed him tomorrow? Well, of course not right in the morning, before they began training. But perhaps after lunch, when they were waiting to be called up for their private session. She could time it so that the Careers were already gone and the rest of the assembled group would be nervously pondering their own upcoming session. She liked the idea. She would smile and say it was for luck. And then… With the thought of him kissing her in return, for luck in advance as she would be last to have her private session, she fell asleep.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Phoenicia was well aware of the fact that she was the youngest among the Gamemakers. Consequently she took her duties of assessing the tributes a tad more serious than the rest. Or so she thought. Perhaps it was only that she had not yet developed those skills which allowed her to survey the gymnasium and at the same time eat half the buffet as her colleagues seemed to do. With a notepad in hand she walked along the balcony which ran around the perimeter of the gymnasium.

In one of the darker corners she almost stumbled over Octavius, one of the veteran Gamemakers.

"Pardon," she said and wanted to move quickly past him, but he held her back.

"Let me see your notes," he demanded.

Phoenicia was taken aback. "Why?" She protested. "What is it to you what I note down? Our final points will be up for discussion tomorrow after private sessions; that's soon enough for you to see."

He rolled his eyes and snatched the notepad from her.

"Hey!"

Octavius scanned the page on which she had neatly written the name of each tribute and next to it anything she had found noteworthy. "Girl, I just want to help you," he said a little gruffly. "It's your first games. You are bound to miss things, which will then result in wrong scores. And when we begin discussing the scores, you'll have to defend each and every score where you are off more than one point from the majority. Trust me when I say that it can be awkward to downright humiliating. You don't want to be the laughing stock of the group, do you?"

Phoenicia shook her head. Inside she was still fuming at the suggestion that her assessment of the tributes might not be the most thorough, considering how carefully she was observing them, but she knew better than to dismiss Octavius' advice, no matter how unwelcome it was. Like with so many positions with a public notice, life as a gamemaker resembled surviving in a pool full of sharks – and the ones biting most viciously were her own colleagues. Skills alone were not enough to get one this job, one also needed the right relations. Consequently with every new gamemaker there were always quite a number of disgruntled gamemakers, who would have preferred to see their own protégée promoted and who were then trying to make the new one's life as difficult as possible.

As such, not knowing whether Octavius was friend or foe, Phoenicia determined that she would listen to what he had to say about her assessment and then decide for herself whether to heed his advice or not.

"See," Octavius said at that moment, tapping a pen at the screen where she had written the name of the District 8 boy tribute. "You marked him as a good team player. I marked him as a fool."

Phoenicia's head shot up. "But he and the girl from District Twelve are really working well together at the camouflage station." She pointed in their general direction. "And from what we got on the trainers' notes, they spent yesterday's lunch together in conversation… I am no big fan of larger alliances as these break up too soon to be of real value outside the Big Alliance. But teams of two I've often seen achieve noteworthy things in the past games."

"Your argument about teams of two is true," Octavius nodded. "But the boy from District Eight and the girl from District Twelve are more than just a team. See how close they sit together? How they incline their heads towards each other? Mark my words, these two are the star-crossed lovers of this Hunger Games' season."

"Lovers?" Phoenicia gasped. Her eyes clouded with pity.

"See," Octavius snarled as he observed her. "That's why we don't like star-crossed lovers here much. They always evoke pity in the audience. It seems so cruel to ultimately pitch them against each other in the arena. But what they all forget is: Without the games, without those two having been reaped, they would never have met, seeing how they live in different districts. So, considering the fact that all humans are in the end mortal, aren't we already giving them a wonderful gift, by allowing these two to spend at least a few days together and enjoy a happiness they might otherwise never have experienced? Besides, love for a fellow tribute ultimately makes a tribute less focussed on their own survival."

"Aren't you a bit harsh here?"

"Phoenicia, you are a gamemaker now, not part of the audience," Octavius reminded her. "The audience always loves star- rossed lovers and we get them often enough. Yes, the audience knows deep down that these two are destined for heartbreak, but they support them nonetheless. If both tributes were from the same district, it would be different. There, being reaped for the games is really tragic, as without the games they might have found happiness together. But the way it is with those two… It would never have worked out. So if we give them credit for their love-based team-work in the training scores, we are misleading the sponsors. Yes, in the short run, making them sponsor star-crossed lovers which are usually doomed to die comparatively early in the games, it would mean more money for the fund. But many sponsors are repeaters, who would feel abused if we allowed the star-crossed lovers to play on their sympathies too often and too obviously, which in the long run would cost us dearly. So better focus on assessing the tributes for their skills alone, not for the emotions they evoke." With this he handed Phoenicia her notepad back.

Only when she was out of earshot did the young gamemaker allow herself a deep sigh. This really was a pool full of sharks. A pool full of sharks, with seals thrown in for good measure, while sea eagles circled overhead.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	17. Chapter 15 - Training: Speed

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 15: Training – It's all about speed**

 _Effie Trinket, Escort District 12_

When she had gotten the job as escort for District 12 a few years ago, Effie Trinket had believed herself in heaven. An elite job in the public relations business – after all there were only twelve escorts – with free access to the crème de la crème in politics and economics. Not to mention the benefit of all the free designer clothes, because even if it was only District 12, the Reaping there was aired all over the country, the Capitol included, so free advertising for fashion labels if she wore their creations. And in this aspect District 12 had the advantage over all the other districts – their Reaping was the first of the day.

Other than that this job was really on the wrong side of unpleasant. Yes, it was luxurious to travel in the posh high-speed train, but District 12 really wasn't a travel destination worth mentioning in any travel guide for Panem. Added to this was the fact that this district only ever had two victors in the whole of more than 65 Hunger Games, out of which one was already dead and the other dead drunk all the time. Other districts might have a similar low victor rate, but at least these victors were not drunk to the point where they did not even know how to spell the word 'polite' much less behave in such a way. But then again, judging by the tributes reaped at District 12, Effie might have been inclined to think that maybe Haymitch Abernathy had the right idea of ignoring them in favour of liquor. Those Effie had witnessed so far had all exuded such despondency at the Reaping that she considered it a already miracle worth the victory crown if they survived the first day in the arena. And if they did, Effie freely attributed it to the cheery speeches of encouragement she had given those tributes during the short time they had spent together, because their mentor hadn't made the least effort in that department either.

This year however she was resolved to try a bit more for her tributes. Especially the boy. After all, he was so polite and well-mannered. He clearly was a notch above the ordinary stuff reaped from District 12. But also by now Effie had observed the mentors and other escorts for quite a while and knew that for example District 6 faced a similar problem with incapacitated mentors, but that there the escort tried to negotiate with prospective sponsors. Now all that remained for her to do was learn from this escort how to do this and how to get a deal sealed.

Hoping to catch him there, Effie entered the sponsors' lounge with some trepidation. There were already some interested parties assembled, but although they eyed her with mild interest, she obviously wasn't whom they were waiting for. While usually she would be slightly miffed about receiving so little notice, today she was rather relieved. She wouldn't know – yet – how to behave around potential sponsors if any were willing to talk to her. Scanning the room, she soon found Pancratius Serva, the escort of District 6 at one of the corner tables. Unfortunately he was already talking to someone, so she would have to wait. Settling down at a table within view of the other escort, she ordered herself a coffee, not hesitating to put it down on District 12's bill. If she was doing Haymitch's job, she might as well appropriate his privileges in the lounge, as otherwise she would have to pay the horrendous prices aimed at fleecing the sponsors just a little bit more.

Finally she saw the couple with whom Serva had been talking rise and take their leave. The other escort also got up, but before Effie could embarrass herself by jumping up to run after him and most likely knock over the cup of coffee in the process, he had walked over to her.

"Miss Trinket," he greeted her and with a nod from her slid into an opposite seat. "May I dare and guess why you are here?"

"Mr. Serva," Effie blurted out, "I want to learn how I can make sponsor deals for my tributes."

He shook his head with a slight smile. "So anxious," he murmured. But to soothe the ruffled feathers of the young escort, he continued: "I had been hoping to see you here one of these years."

Effie released the breath she had not realized she had held. "So you will help me?"

"I will not help you," Pancratius said, "but I will help your tributes. See, winning sponsors is not so dissimilar to running a campaign to become the newest escort. With one big difference: This time you'll not be advertising yourself but your tributes."

Effie nodded.

He eyed her closely. "Trust me; this will be quite a challenge. As escorts we are used to shine, to advertise ourselves. We know about the material we are dealing with. But the tributes… That's why usually the mentors are the ones dealing with the sponsors. They live in the same district as the tributes; sometimes even know them in advance. They know what skills can be expected or learned easily. As Capitolites, we don't have that advantage."

"And yet here you are," Effie said with pencilled arched eyebrows.

"Same as you. Because it's the tributes' only chance. Though be careful not to advertise skills your tributes can't possibly have. And keep in mind that only the mentors can ultimately seal a deal."

Effie waved her hand. "I know that. But I think I can pester Haymitch Abernathy enough to get him to sign the sponsorship deals. If only to be rid of me and to get his bottle back."

"Good for you, girlie. But you'll also have to pester him to actually use the money on the tributes during the games. Else they revert back to the big fund. And while no sponsor will hold you liable for unused sponsor money if the tributes die during the Bloodbath, they will hold you liable if the tribute dies of dehydration on the third day because the mentor was too deep in his cups to send whatever water he could have bought with the money."

She nodded. If it meant pestering Haymitch even more, she was all game. This man tried his best to sabotage her grand appearance on national TV every year, so she felt entitled to make his time at the Capitol less comfortable than it was at the moment.

"So, tell me about your tributes. What skills will you try to advertise?"

Pancratius really seemed to be willing to help her, so Effie told him the truth. "I thought that this year I'll focus only on one tribute. I mean, I'm still learning, so… focus might help. And the boy as the younger tribute might need the help of sponsors more than the girl… She seems quite self-reliant to me. And he is such a polite young man."

The older escort frowned. He clearly did not think her argumentation sound. "Self-reliance is a trait you could market far better than politeness," he offered. However, sensing that Effie's heart was set on helping the boy, he asked her: "What else can you tell me about the boy?"

"Hm…" Effie mused for a moment. She was slightly miffed that Pancratius downplayed the importance of politeness in tributes. But she trusted him enough to understand that she needed something better for Joseph with which to convince the sponsors. "He really appreciated the train. Of course he was awed by the interior – which tribute isn't? – but he seemed quite familiar with the total length, the length of the wagons, the speed it could travel with… He said he used to run alongside it when the train slowed down at the junction point in District Twelve. He could also sense by the slowing of the train when we approached the junction point in District Eleven. Junction points was actually when he was at the windows to try and catch a glimpse. He wore a quite pained expression at the first junction and it seemed he was trying to catch the attention of someone outside with such intensity that I feared for a moment he might try to jump. At the next junction he was more curious than sad…" She blathered on and on.

Pancratius nodded and finally interrupted her. "Find out why he was sad at the first junction. If he was merely sad at leaving the district, he would have shown it differently, he would have been sad the moment the train pulled out of the station and not waited till you reached the junction. As for the aspect you can use for marketing, he told it to you." Seeing her puzzled face, he elaborated: "You said, he told you that he used to run alongside the train. So even if the train slows down to pass the junction, it will still be quite fast. To run alongside, if only for a brief distance, would mean that he is a fast runner. I dare say he used to run along since he was very little, giving him a good training. A fast runner has a good chance to escape the Bloodbath, has a good chance to outrun even the Careers. And a tribute who can outrun the Careers might get the notice of sponsors."

Effie nodded. "Thank you so much, you don't know what it means to me. I'll try and get to know Joseph a bit better, but in the meantime, I'll go back and plan my approach. If I can get but one sponsor for him, I'll be already happy. And who knows, by helping him, I might even help myself. After all, there hasn't been a victor without sponsors since the very early games, and only a victor will get me promoted to one of the better districts. So, keep your fingers crossed for me that one of these years, I'll manage to get so many sponsors that my tributes can win without the least skills."

Pancratius couldn't help laughing lightly at this notion, this odd mix of ridiculousness and truth.

* * *

 _Joseph Franks, D12, 15Y_

Joseph felt like crying. Seriously he had felt like that almost all the time since the Reaping.

There had been times when it had been especially hard. Like when the train had passed his home. He had felt more than he had seen that his father had been standing just inside the door, trying to catch a parting glimpse of the son he was most likely never to see again. And that night, he had actually shed a few tears in the solitude of his compartment.

At other times he had managed to concentrate on other things and almost forget about what was awaiting him. Strange enough the presence of their escort had helped. Yes, she was rather overdone in a lot of ways, but Joseph felt that underneath all that Capitol-polish she was caring in her own way. His district partner Linley of course had not shared this view – she had rolled her eyes at Effie's efforts to cheer them up and had otherwise kept a stony face. Joseph instinctively knew that he could count more on Effie to help him survive the next few days than on Linley, not to mention their mentor Haymitch. Effie's words about attempting to get him a few sponsors had even given him heart enough to smile and wave at the crowd, no matter how disinterested they were. If Effie wanted to help him then he would do everything not to boycott her efforts. After all, he would only hurt himself by doing so. Linley had just stared straight ahead, resigned to the fact that because of their mentor they would not get sponsors anyway. But Joseph decided to trust the escort. She seemed rather determined, so if she said she'd get him some sponsors, then that's what she would do.

Yet whatever little modicum of courage or self-confidence he had felt when entering the gymnasium for the first training session, it was swiftly and effectively killed by the Careers. All of them were heading for their favourite weapon – weapons solely devised to kill him, or so it seemed. And that's why right now he felt like crying almost to the same extent as when he had passed his home and father two days ago. Of course now was absolutely not the time to give into the urge. Doing that would seal his fate as easily as stepping off the launching platform too early at the beginning of the games would do. So he forced the burning sensation behind his eyes away, commanded himself to take deep and even breaths, and balled his hands into fists to hide the shaking of nerves. All this of course resulted in considerable tension, but that was way better than breaking down amidst 23 future enemies out to kill him.

By the time he felt that he had regained control over his body and emotions about all other tributes had already dispersed to the various stations. Some were trying to pick up survival skills; others were trying their luck with weapons. Joseph could see Linley at one of the stations, trying to swing a ghastly looking mace. The sight alone almost sent his emotions in another tumble, so he swiftly turned aside. He could try weapons later. Or tomorrow. Or whenever. Right now… he longed to run! It had always helped at home, so why shouldn't it help here as well? And while it was no official training station, he realized that all stations were set a good few meters from the wall, allowing anybody who wanted to jog or run the perimeter to do so.

Imagining a train – not the high-speed train which had brought him here, but a regular transportation train – he took another deep breath and then took off. He was slow at first, to get rid of the stiffness which held his limbs captive, but soon he was running at the pace he was used to. And after three quarters of a turn around the room, he was so far immersed as to be able to ignore the stations and the tributes he was passing. Another round and he even began to feel good.

But then the unexpected happened. Amidst the rhythm of his own feet he suddenly noticed a second one, slightly faster, and soon he heard another person's breathing. Slowly the other person was gaining on him. Not knowing who it was, but fearing it to be a Career bent on intimidating him even in this field, Joseph didn't even take the time to turn his head and check out the other person, he simply increased his pace. He would show whoever it was that he could possibly outrun every other tribute!

To his dismay the other runner simply accepted the challenge and likewise increased the speed. Soon Joseph was running as fast as he could, trying to finally get the better of his unseen but well heard rival, but he could not shake off his shadow. At least, he thought fleetingly, the other one was no longer gaining on him.

Finally he was all spent. He looked up and spotted a table with refreshments for the tributes at the other end of the gymnasium. Slowing down, he walked over at a controlled pace. He knew from experience that coming to a full stop after running for quite some time would have his muscles tremble and tense up again, thereby negating the very reason why he had run in the first place. To his surprise the other runner did not overtake him so as to show his or her superiority, but only caught up with him now and walked beside him. Joseph was relieved to see that the girl was not a Career, but the tribute from District 6. If he remembered correctly, she was his age.

"That was great!" she said a bit out of breath.

He nodded and even smiled a little.

"I was at the obstacle course when I saw you start running. By the second round you looked almost relaxed. And since I've never seen anyone who likes running as much as I do, I couldn't resist to race you a bit," she confessed.

"Well, all the others seemed to be focussed on learning how to kill each other, I felt more like running." Joseph tried to make it sound like it was all part of a plan. "After all, I can't get killed if I'm not there because I already put a good distance between me and the killer."

The girl nodded. "That was what I was thinking when I decided to try the obstacle course. Why don't you come and join me? Because honestly, I don't think we'll be able to just run straight ahead. Especially at the beginning we will have to dodge knives thrown at us or the random axe, or even another tribute in our way."

Joseph felt proud and angry with himself at the same time. Proud that he had managed to conceal his need to run as actual training, and angry because the girl had obviously worked with the same plan he was pretending to use, only that she had already taken it to the next level. Because of course he wouldn't be able to run straight away. This way he'd end up with a pretty knife in his back, thanks to the boy from District 4 who was currently demonstrating his abilities at that particular station. So he nodded at the girl's suggestion. "I'm Joseph, by the way," he introduced himself.

"I'm Cassiopeia."

They spent the rest of the morning at the obstacle course. Joseph was at first surprised that no less than four trainers manned that station, but it soon became apparent why that was the case. Every time they had managed to dodge about half of the obstacles and thought they were better prepared for the next time, the trainers changed the rhythm with which they released the obstacles or even switching obstacles. Had they found themselves dodging swinging punching bags the previous round, they might now encounter unstable stepping stones in the same place. And to make things even worse, the trainers could at any time throw balls at them which were coated with some chalky powder in different colours.

After the first round in which the trainers had made use of the balls – they were allowing the two tributes to get somewhat familiar with the course first – both of them looked like polka-dotted clowns. And while each hit symbolised a wound, some of them even fatal, they couldn't help but laugh at the sight of each other. Eager to try again, Joseph patted his clothes to remove the colourful dust, as he walked to the starting point again. Curiously enough, Cassiopeia lagged behind, talking instead to one of the trainers. Not for long however and soon she was back at the start with him.

"Up for another go?" she asked him with a slightly impish grin.

He smirked back at her and said: "Race you!" And he was off.

This time he was able to dodge all the swinging obstacles and only fell off the balancing beam part once. At the end though he resembled once more a rainbow. Cassiopeia on the other track was a bit slower, reaching the end of the course only several seconds after him.

"You know that those seconds could cost you dearly in the arena," he could not resist taunting her just a little bit.

However, instead of looking disappointed, she just shot him a smug smile of her own. "Oh, I don't know… let's do a wound check!"

Only now did he see that Cassiopeia sported far less coloured spots than he did. While she had been slower than he, she had managed to dodge far more 'weapons' than he had. He was not even sure if he had managed to dodge a single ball.

"Ouch!" Cassiopeia exclaimed, wiping an index finger across his sweaty neck. It sported a nice red colour when she presented it to him. "I dare say you were felled by an axe to the neck."

Joseph, intent on finding a similar fatal wound on his training partner, surveyed her closely.

Feeling his scrutinizing gaze on her, she smiled a little ruefully. "Yes, I know, not really impressive. I might have avoided wounds which would have resulted in an instant death, but the total amount of other wounds is such that I would have bled to death before the Bloodbath is over." She shrugged. "I guess, we just have to train some more."

Again Joseph saw her speak with a trainer, before taking her position at the start again. "What was that about?" He asked, jutting his chin in the direction of the trainer.

"Tell you later. There's just about enough time for one more round before they will send us off to lunch," Cassiopeia said.

This time Joseph tried to focus more on the balls, but the result was not all too good either, as around halfway through the course he took a swinging punching bag to the back. Yet, he was determined to master this. To make it out of the Bloodbath alive by running away. It was his only chance he felt.

In the dining hall, each of them grabbed a tray with lunch, then settled at one of the tables. Unfortunately it was the table next to the one the Careers chose, who were regaling everyone within hearing about their own skills, which also in a veiled way voiced their opinion of their fellow tributes and their skills – or rather lack of the same. An opinion which consequently pictured them all dead within the first half day in the arena. Joseph felt the food in his mouth turn into saw dust at those words.

Luckily Cassiopeia saved him. Using the Careers' noise as cover, she reminded him that he had wanted to know about her conversation with the trainers. "It was assessment," she said. Sensing more than seeing his questioning look, she asked back: "Do you think the trainers are only there to man the obstacles? If that was the case, they could man the station with avoxes and have just one trainer oversee the station. So if there are trainers it means they are there to train us. To offer help. For example by telling us what we did wrong so that we can avoid making the same mistakes again the next time."

Anger crept up on Joseph once more. He had once again overlooked important things. Why, o why was he being so stupid? It was so frustrating, making him feel like a cry-baby. Was he really such a helpless case of a tribute? "But why aren't they simply telling us, why do you have to ask?" he demanded defensively. Wouldn't that be much easier?

"It's the same at all stations. You have to ask for help. You are not simply told or even ordered around. Imagine you were something like a secret Career. Well, not one of the tributes from Districts One, Two or Four, but one who knows far better how to fight than you want the others to know. In which case you would perhaps go to the station with your favourite weapon, say a spear, and purposely handle it as if you have no idea how to throw it. If the trainer then instructed you how to hold it properly and make you practice till you have it down, it would partly spoil your plan. Because then the Careers and all the other tributes would know that you learned how to handle a spear. Sure, they might still expect your aim to be off, but they wouldn't be as careless as they might otherwise be."

Why did she have to have an answer for everything? And what was worse, a logical answer at that? And where from did she know all this stuff? The latter question he asked out loud.

"Our escort." She frowned. "Our mentors are of no use. They only look forward to the games, because then they can get their hands on the good Capitol drugs and not the cheap stuff they sell in our district. As such our escort takes over many of the mentors' duties, for which I'm grateful. Other than that, my adopted grandfather always told me that only by asking questions I can learn."

Joseph marvelled at how similar their mentor situation was. "Haymitch is the same. Only with him it's alcohol, not drugs. I'm not even sure they sell drugs in District Twelve. But then, there's so much I don't know about everyday life in that district."

"You make it sound like you don't really belong to the district," Cassiopeia noted.

"My family works at the junction on the border of District Twelve," Joseph explained. "Most of the year the only thing I see of the district is the coal train passing by. I used to race it."

"Trains!" Cassiopeia exclaimed. "That explains your speed. I used to run and dodge the trains at the big station in our district."

They both smiled at each other. It felt good to have found a kindred mind among all the field of potential enemies.

All too soon lunch was over. As they headed back to the gymnasium, Joseph was disappointed to see Cassiopeia head for the survival stations. He had somehow expected her to return to the obstacle course with him, so that they could continue training together. For a moment he contemplated following her to the station of her choice, but he also wanted to know what the trainers had to tell him about getting better at dodging balls. He was stubborn like that, wanting to truly master the course before moving on. Still, he could not refrain from calling after Cassiopeia: "What about our race?" as if they were still competing on the track and she was admitting defeat by not returning to the course.

She waved at him and called back: "I'll continue beating you on the obstacle course tomorrow." And with this she turned her attention on fire making.

* * *

 _Cassiopeia Jansen, D6, 15Y_

Cassiopeia loathed the moment the training ended and they were ushered from the gymnasium. As she rode the elevator up to the floor of District 6, it all came crashing back down on her. Why she was here. What was awaiting her. How slim her chances of survival were. All through the day she had been able to focus on the training, on learning something new. Yes, it was training designed on preparing her for those very games in which she had those slim survival chances. But it had kept her busy, physically and mentally. Now though, there was a long evening ahead of her, time when most unpleasant thoughts, frightening thoughts would creep up on her.

As such it was with a rather dejected face that she entered their suite. The sight which greeted her was not really designed to cheer her up, because sprawled on the sofas and knocked out by the high quality drugs were the two mentors. If not for the fact that they had survived their Hunger Games, Cassiopeia would have been utterly disgusted by them. But as such she felt at least a last remaining inkling of respect for their feat, so instead of screaming at them or telling them off, she simply ignored them and headed straight to her room. Perhaps she should indulge herself with a really long and hot shower…

Standing under the hot spray, she relaxed at the feeling of the water washing away the sweat accumulated throughout the day. Unfortunately however her thoughts began to flow with the water and soon were flowing the wrong direction, so with a sigh she turned off the shower. Putting on some clothes, not really caring what they looked like or if they even matched, she flopped down on her bed. She was not sure she wanted to go out into the main room for dinner, facing their stoned mentors. Perhaps she could just roll up in a ball and fall asleep? Possibly sleep through the night, if her body was worn out enough?

A knock on the door interrupted her not really cheerful thoughts.

"Enter," she called.

The door opened and revealed Pancratius. "How was the shower?" He asked with a smile.

She stared at him a bit perplexed. Why was he asking about the shower?

"You seemed to be so intent on getting there that I did not even get the chance to ask you how the first day of training went," he elaborated.

Cassiopeia looked a little chagrined. She had been so put out by the sight of the mentors that she had completely forgotten to look for the escort, even though she knew that he was the one who truly cared for them. "Er… nice… and hot." She said with a little rueful smile.

"Good." Pancratius pulled over a chair and sat down. "So, will you tell me about your day now?"

Pushing away her negative thoughts, she recounted her day for the escort. "I really liked the obstacle course, but felt I would waste too much time if I only focussed on that one station instead of trying to learn as much as possible from the other stations," she explained. "Joseph stayed there the whole of the afternoon as well. And since we want to race each other tomorrow morning again, I'm afraid he's really setting himself up for failure this way. He might be able to outrun everyone and dodge everything thrown at him, but what use is it if he doesn't know how to operate those special water bottles?"

"You could tell him," Pancratius suggested to test Cassiopeia what she really thought about the boy from District 12, perhaps even as potential ally.

"I could… but I already told him so many things. Like that he has to ask the trainers for help. Yes, I know that he is probably getting not enough information from his mentor or escort, but he is my age, so he should be a bit more self-reliant," she explained. "The problem is, should I encounter him in the arena, dying from thirst, I would most likely share my water with him. But I don't trust him enough to predict with certainty that he wouldn't go all berserk and kill me at first sight or backstab me and steal my bottle."

The escort nodded sagely. "Going berserk and backstabbing are of course likely possibilities in the arena. Same as is the possibility that you wouldn't share your water with him, but kill him, as he would be one enemy less."

Cassiopeia made a face at this. She clearly didn't like the idea of killing someone.

Pancratius shook his head slightly. "Cassiopeia, don't dismiss the effect the arena will have on you. It might well be you going berserk. And if this happens so that you survive, then it's not all that wrong. I honour your wish to remain humane, and sharing your water with a tribute dying from thirst would be the humane thing to do. But there is no guarantee that your water will save that tribute. Sometimes the dehydration has reached a point where simply drinking water won't be enough any longer. In which case it might be the more humane thing to kill that person, to end their suffering and give them a merciful death."

"I still don't like the thought," Cassiopeia said petulantly.

"You don't have to like it. Just don't hate yourself if you find yourself in such a situation in the arena and decide that killing the person is the better choice." Pancratius advised her. "As for Joseph, if you want, I could give his escort a hint that he should check out the water bottles. I will most likely encounter her in the sponsors' lounge tomorrow."

The girl contemplated the suggestion for a moment and then nodded. "As much as I think that everyone forges their own destiny, which makes me reluctant to help Joseph more than I have already done, I have a feeling that the knowledge about the water bottles is important. Their set-up is so peculiar… and surely they wouldn't be part of the survival stations if it wasn't important that the tributes become familiar with the operation of them. So I would most likely not be able to face myself in the mirror if I knowingly withheld that information from him."

"Good choice," he said. "But I take it from your description of the boy, that while you don't mind training with him, he wouldn't be your first choice as ally?"

Cassiopeia looked a bit dismayed. Indeed she had been contemplating earlier in the afternoon, how she wanted to react should Joseph ask her about an alliance. She shook her head. "Alliances only make sense if the partners can help each other to survive. Currently all I know of him is that he is good at running and dodging. But surviving in the arena requires more than that. It requires food and water. Of course it could be that he knows all about edible plants, so he doesn't need to check out that station, or that he knows how to catch fish or whatever you could catch in the arena. But I don't know that. And I would need proof of my ally's abilities before I agreed on an alliance."

"What about your ally simply being able to steady your mind, to combat loneliness by keeping you company?" Pancratius suggested.

"I'm not sure if such an alliance would not be more a weakness than a strength. If I relied on another person for comfort, then loosing that person because he or she got killed could break me, making me easy prey. As such, I think the best I can offer Joseph is to not kill him, but run the other way when I see him and hope he agrees to do the same."

"And what about anyone else as ally? Have you perhaps seen one you would think worth approaching?"

"Why are you so bent on alliances?" Cassiopeia asked back.

Pancratius smiled. "I'm not bent on them. Sure, they are nice in terms of possibly getting a share of the sponsor money meant for another tribute, but I just want to make sure that you know your own mind on that topic. Trying to form an alliance while on the launching platforms, because it suddenly dawns on you that you'd rather have an ally despite having thought so otherwise during training, is rather difficult."

This picture elicited a little laugh from the girl. The idea of tributes frantically signalling each other, haggling over last minute agreements was rather ridiculous.

"So, no alliances," the escort concluded.

"I'd rather not. If I can manage to pick up enough skills that I feel I'll do better on my own, then I won't try and form some almost last-minute alliances during lunch on the third day." Cassiopeia said.

"What skills do you feel you are lacking still?"

"Weapons." The girl sighed. "Even if I don't intend to kill someone purposely, I will need to know how to defend myself if need be. But I have no idea which weapon might suit me. They all look as if they require years to learn properly."

"Well," Pancratius said, "to really master them, you'd be right in your assessment that it requires years. But you don't have to master the weapon of your choice; you just have to get a feel for it. From what I've seen in the games, a lot of times lack of skill is made up by instinct, adrenaline, and the pure drive to survive. If you then know which end of the weapon is the handle and which the deadly part, then you have already won half the battle."

"So any suggestion which weapon could suit me?" Cassiopeia asked.

The escort pondered the question, but eventually shook his head. "As I have not seen you in training, I can't really say which weapon would be best for you. So if I advised you to pick up one, it could be the wrong one. But ask the trainers at the obstacle course tomorrow. They have observed you, so could suggest something. Also, often there are more weapons available than are on display at the stations. It might be that you haven't been able to pick a weapon because you didn't know about it, but the moment a trainer fetches it for you and you try it, you know it's the right one."

"Sounds like a good plan. So I'll race Joseph first thing tomorrow, then try the suggested weapon till lunch, learn about traps in the afternoon and finish the day with more weapon training should the weapon fit." And for the first time that evening, Cassiopeia felt the lingering despair lift. "Thank you." She gave the escort a quick heartfelt hug.

Keeping his words in mind, Cassiopeia indeed approached one of the trainers at the obstacle course, even before she raced Joseph for the first time that morning.

"Give me three rounds on the course, then I'll tell you what weapon I think might suit you," he promised her.

"Hey, what was that about?" Joseph asked her, when she joined him at the starting point. "Already consulting the trainers?"

"They are here to help," Cassiopeia shrugged. "Ready?"

He nodded eagerly, sure to win. But she was prepared to be beaten by him on the course, what with all his single-minded training. It was to be expected, but while she still wanted to do her best and prove to be a challenge to Joseph, her talk with Pancratius had given her new determination. One which was not simply aimed at winning a race.

"Then, let's be… off!" With this she sprinted down the straight strip, which was the first part of the course, dodging the swinging punching bags, narrowly avoiding a trick step suddenly opening up below her right foot, though unable to completely twist out of the way of the thrown ball. It grazed her hair, leaving behind a red smear. Scalp wound, she thought. Bleed like hell, but hardly deadly.

Next to her, Joseph jumped over the trick step in his path, fell down and grinned as he felt the ball soar far over him. Up again, he continued the path, nimbly climbing the balancing beam portion. This one was trickier, as it left less room to avoid obstacles and he more than once almost fell off the beam. Cassiopeia on the other hand had less problems with that part. She simply ran as fast as she could, thereby neatly avoiding the punching bags. Midway she saw from the corner of her eye the trainer near the end of the beam hold a ball. Sensing that he was calculating her speed, she slowed somewhat, then, knowing this not to be enough, stopped mid-step and did a pirouette just as she had done as a small child on the tracks. The ball flew past and though she almost fell off the beam, she caught herself quickly and began running again. She grinned as she passed the trainer, even saluted to him, though she was not foolish enough to stop. No need to give him time to throw another ball at her.

Up ahead was the sand basin. It was not really filled with sand, it was a basin full of colourful balls, over which a strips of nets were spanned, covered with a substance looking like sand. The tricky part was – the nets' bolts were not strong enough to support the weight of a tribute for more than a second or two. So no stopping to dodge, twist or whatever. Cassiopeia took another hit there, while Joseph triumphed and got a good few steps ahead of her. Another straight strip followed, at the end of which stood a wall which had to be scaled and behind it they were safe.

Joseph dropped down on the safe side several seconds before Cassiopeia. He grinned at her. He even passed the wound check. They would have both survived the trip, but Cassiopeia sported a head wound and another wound at her leg, while Joseph only had a small smear on one of his ears. Cassiopeia congratulated him, then said: "Best out of three" and already headed over to the starting point, dusting off the chalk as she went.

Her training partner might wonder at her lack of talk to the trainers in between runs, but after the third turn, she sure kept up her habit of consulting them. Not wanting her to have him witness her being admonished by the trainer as to where she could improve, Joseph kept his distance, waiting for the conversation to finish. Cassiopeia appreciated his discretion, though not for the reasons he supposed.

"Okay, here you have it: Your strongest point is your sense of balance. The beam part is clearly your favourite, you are even in danger of getting cocky there," the trainer said. "You also know how to jump, turn and twist, if the ground is suitable. As such a thrust weapon, such as a foil might be the right choice for you. The sword trainer can help you with that and give you an introduction to the art of fencing."

Cassiopeia shot a look in the direction of the sword station, where the boy tribute from District 1 was just handling one of the broadswords as if it were a mere teaspoon, and paled.

The trainer laid a hand on her shoulder. "Ignore him. For one, he has had years of training, presumably to prepare him how to present collectors of antique and luxury weapons their newest object of desire, and then – his weapon is a cut weapon, which is completely different from a thrust weapon such as you'll be trying your hand at. Both have their advantages and disadvantages, so don't let another weapon keep you from learning yours."

"But… won't other tributes," she looked pointedly in the direction of the Careers, "know how to handle a thrust weapon as well, and definitely better than me?"

The trainer nodded dispassionately, but not wanting her to become completely disheartened, continued: "You don't want to learn how to handle a foil to win in a fancy tournament. You want to learn how to handle it to defend yourself enough so that you can get away, survive and perhaps take another tribute down along the way."

This reminded Cassiopeia of what Pancratius had said about adrenaline and instinct helping her, so she gathered up her courage and walked over to the swords station. Because while trust was a luxury she could not afford regarding another tribute, and especially not inside the arena, it was a necessity when it came to the trainers and her escort. She did not even hear Joseph calling after her.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Urs lay sprawled on his seat near the buffet set up for the gamemakers, pretending for all the world – and especially the tributes – to be drunk. As if a single glass of watered down wine could manage that. The rest of the time he had drunk grape juice. He hated grape juice with a passion, but it was part of the game they played. After all, the tributes were not to know that the training actually counted as much if not more towards their training score than did what they showed during their private sessions. And if the gamemakers seemed drunk and distracted by food, the tributes wouldn't in a thousand years think they were already being judged.

From his seat he could observe the obstacle course best. He loved that particular station as it revealed a lot about the tributes who tackled this challenge. However, he frowned when he realized that the same two tributes, who had already been at that station the day before, prepared to race the course again. He huffed. "The boy doesn't surprise me," he muttered, "but I would have thought better of the girl."

"What if it's only her warm-up station for the day?" The gamemaker next to him suggested.

"I sure hope so, Apollonius. I would hate to have to revise my opinion on her and mark her down as cannon fodder as I did with the boy."

"Again, aren't you a bit too harsh, giving up on him so early?" Apollonius inquired.

"Look at him," Urs just said. "Yes, he is determined. And yes, mastering the obstacle course will help him survive the Bloodbath if he doesn't do something stupid. But beyond that? Speed is not everything. So unless he surprises us all in the private session, I can't see him get far. With his single-mindedness he is likely to even miss the water bottles. It's a mistake I would have expected the tributes from Districts One, Two and Four to make, but they have a sensible tribute among them this year, who already found out and told the others. But the boy from District Twelve… I see a lot more potential in the girl."

The two of them watched companionably as the two tributes in question traversed the course a couple of times. Then the girl spoke with one of the trainers and after a bit moved over to the weapons section of the gymnasium.

"Ha!" exclaimed Urs and Apollonius at the same time, one pretending to fall off the chair while the other spilled some food over his shirt.

"I knew it was only warm-up for her," Apollonius said.

"And I knew that she knew better than to waste a whole morning at a station she has already mastered reasonably well," Urs added. "As I said, speed is not everything."

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	18. Chapter 16 - Training: Reconnaissance

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 16: Training – It's all about reconnaissance**

 _Pancratius Serva, Escort District 6_

Pancratius sighed, then entered the mentors' lounge. As much as the victors accepted him and his efforts to help his tributes, he felt out of place here. While strictly speaking he didn't belong in the sponsors' lounge either, he only had to deal with Capitolites there and being one of them even helped in some cases. In the mentors' lounge however, no matter how many years had passed, he was someone alien. Even with the victors from the Career districts – districts which considered themselves rather close to the Capitol – they would have declared greater kinship to Haymitch Abernathy from District 12, or Farouk and Mya, the two victors from District 6 than to him. But the mentors' lounge was the only place he could find either Wendy or Don, the victors from District 10. They never ventured into the sponsors' lounge before the training scores were released. They felt that there was little attraction to District 10 and their tributes, but decent training scores always netted some sponsors. Skills before beauty. Unfortunately it had been almost twenty years since their district had last seen a victor – Don. And as such, the two mentors by now were quite hard-faced and bitter. It would not be easy to talk to them about alliances. Especially as they considered those reaped in District 6 as possibly the worst allies to pick. But the tributes had a mind of their own. Luckily, Pancratius thought as he spotted Don, or else his tributes situation would have been much more difficult should they opt for the ally-route.

While he pondered how to begin the conversation, Don had likewise spied him and tried to evade him. But the escort was quicker. Plus he was in a better bargaining position than usually.

"Serva," Don grunted, grudgingly accepting that he would not escape the other man this time.

Pancratius returned the greeting with considerably more warmth. Then he came straight to the point. He knew Don at least this well that he was not one to discuss the weather first. "Looks like your and my tribute intend to form an alliance."

"Not if I can convince her otherwise. She most likely thinks she can dominate the girl, but Tracey would be far better off without your girl."

Pancratius frowned, slightly angry that Cassiopeia was being dismissed so easily. Then he recalled something she had mentioned in passing during dinner the night before. "Oh no, I'm not talking about the girls. Apparently your girl approached Cassiopeia, but she wisely turned your tribute down. Said she found her too bossy for her own sake."

Don bristled at these words, but Pancratius was not concerned. After all, the former victor lived in the same suite as the girl, so he surely knew the best and the worst traits of a girl the escort recalled had been scowling all through her Reaping. To him, it rather backed up Cassiopeia's claim, besides the fact that Pancratius had no reason to think she would be lying about another tribute. So he continued: "I was actually speaking about the boys."

"Again: Not if I can convince my tribute otherwise."

Pancratius' shoulders sagged ever so slightly. He had hoped Don would be more reasonable. He needed someone in the mentors' lounge after the games began, someone who would nudge Farouk or Mya in the right moment to send a sponsor gift. Else he'd have to rely on what he saw on TV and give them clear orders on which days or during which nights to send the gifts. Which certainly didn't work as well as having another mentor as ally whose tribute would likewise benefit from the gift. But knowing Don to be stubborn as a mule, he only said: "Your choice. I at least already got the first sponsor contract signed for the boy this morning."

And with this he left for the sponsors' lounge to see if he could not get a few more people interested in his tributes, but also to drop the promised hint with Effie Trinket.

* * *

 _Griffin Doyle, D6, 18Y_

Griffin had a plan. If the Hunger Games were to be reviewed the same way he looked at a car with its various components, a number of facts became apparent. Having gone over the games he remembered in his head while the train took him to the Capitol, the first thing he recalled was that half the games were won by Careers and those not won by Careers were won by people of the upper years. This made perfectly sense to him. Those of the upper years were naturally taller and stronger than the younger tributes, unless severe malnutrition interfered. They also had often worked for several years and had thus gained life experience. In the case of the Careers they united the advantages of age, experience and training, which easily explained why at least half of them usually made it to the Final Eight. So, what if they found themselves pitched against an alliance made up of all the other seventeen- and eighteen-year old tributes? This opposing alliance might not be as strong as the Career alliance, but its members would complement each other. What one lacked in terms of plants, another might know, and lack in weapons someone else could alleviate. A quick count while watching the recaps of the Reaping had told him that in this case they would even be able to form an alliance of almost the same size as the Career Alliance.

There was of course a problem: The Careers entered the games prepared to work together till the Final Eight. The other districts had no such traditional ties, working rather each on their own, so it would take considerable time to get such an alliance going and keep it working. And in some cases he would most likely not even succeed in convincing them. Still, he felt this was his best chance.

With this plan in mind, he listened only with half his attention to the head-trainer's words on the first day of training. He was more focussed on watching his potential allies. Whom should he approach first? Who appeared to be most open to his proposition?

The trainer had ended her speech and the tributes scattered to the various stations. And Griffin still didn't know whom to approach. But then again, maybe he should first advertise his own value as ally and give others an idea of what he could do? Knowing that besides analysis he was good at throwing things, he approached the knife throwing station. Next to him the boy from District 4 was positioning himself. He picked up a set of knives from the trainer and with a thud the first knife found itself embedded dead centre in the target. Griffin couldn't help but gulp slightly at the sight, especially as a second knife followed rapidly and with as much precision. The thudding noise was hard to ignore, but Griffin simply told himself that this was just Mo working with a hammer on some dent. He weighed his own knives in his hands. They felt pretty much the same weight as a wrench, so he should have no problem hitting the target, he felt. Taking aim, Griffin threw the knife at the target. There was a thud, but unlike with the boy from District 4, his knife had hit the target with the butt and not the blade, falling promptly to the ground. He threw another knife, but with the same result. Hit, but no hit that counted. It was slightly frustrating. With a wrench, it didn't matter much which side hit an escaping thief, but knives were different. He looked over to the Career and watched closely how the other threw the knife, but more importantly how the knife behaved in the air. Then he threw again and instantly noticed the difference. Even if he tried to give the projectile the same speed as the Career, the knife turned far oftener in the air than the other one's knife, resulting in the butt hitting the target. And somehow Griffin doubted that he would learn how to throw without having the projectile turn so often in the air in the limited time before the games.

He saw a trainer watching him and decided to talk to him. He wanted to tell him his analysis and ask if there was perhaps a different weapon, one which was more like a wrench.

The trainer smiled in amusement at the mention of the tool. "I take the wrench is what you usually throw."

Griffin nodded. "And I have yet to let a thief escape."

"That explains your good aim." Near them the Careers were sniggering, obviously at Griffin's lack of skill. "Don't mind them," the trainer said when he saw Griffin's eyes stray over. "They obviously failed to see that while no knife stuck, you always hit the centre. As for another weapon…" He pondered the availability for a moment. "Does it have to be oblong?"

Griffin thought about it for a moment. "Oblong would be nice as it is the size I'm used to most. But other shapes would also be okay I guess. If the weight is correct… After all, I might be reduced to throwing stones in the arena." He shot the trainer a wry grin.

"Definitely good if you know how to find weapons in the arena and not rely on what is offered by the gamemakers," the trainer commented. "Let me see if I can find something in the depot."

Consulting the depot attendant, he returned after a few minutes with a box. Opening it, he revealed flat objects with pointed edges. "These are throwing stars of different shapes and weights. Why don't you try throwing those?" he told Griffin. "They might not penetrate as deep as a knife, but they can inflict serious damage, depending on where the opponent is hit. And they can be thrown both underhand and overhand, and as you can see, it obviously doesn't matter which side hits the target."

Griffin eyed the offered weapons and carefully weighed them. Finding one he felt comfortable with, he walked over to the throwing position again. He took aim and – thunk! The star stuck. He grinned.

The trainer handed him a second one, similar to the first. "Try again."

And again he hit the target. The sniggering of the Careers had died, but now that he had found a suitable weapon, Griffin no longer cared what they did. Granted, the stars he threw at the target stuck in all imaginable angles and didn't line up accurately next to each other, but it could cause a serious nuisance to the Careers should he get his hands on such throwing stars in the arena. He collected the stars, took them over to the trainer and thanked him. Then he walked off. Best not to give the Careers an impression that he wanted an in with them by displaying his skills. Doing a quick scan he saw one of his potential allies at one of the less attended survival stations and decided to join him. It was a station which focussed on water.

He was still grinning, which intrigued the boy from District 10. "Dare I ask what amuses you so?" he queried.

Griffin looked at him and his grin broadened. Seeing this as an opening to advertise his worth as ally to the other one, he retold the episode at the weapon throwing station. "It really feels good to know that they know I'm not helpless, but that I'm also not interested in joining them."

"Wouldn't that make you more a target than you already are?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Not really. If there are throwing stars in the Cornucopia, it's rather unlikely that I'll get them. I don't intend to go in there for weapons. I'll rather rely on what I find in the arena. So they might think of me as a threat now, perhaps even still by the time training scores are released, but when they get their hands on the throwing stars, they will feel secure again."

The other boy nodded. "Most likely. Wish I had their confidence." He sighed a bit.

"Why shouldn't you? I mean, sure, they know how to throw knives and such, but I bet there is something you know which they don't."

"Yeah," he said dejectedly. "How to raise snails."

"Ah, so you are hoping that the arena is swarming with slimy critters which have the Careers fly screaming to the trees, while you crack your snail whip and send your legless allies after them?" Griffin offered with a grin.

The other one laughed despite himself. "Snails are not carnivorous."

"Oh, you never know. After all, those would be special edition snails for the games."

"Thanks for that mental image," he said with a shudder.

"Sorry. I'm Griffin," Griffin introduced himself.

"Maarck." They nodded at each other.

"Now, seriously," Griffin said, "I'm sure there is something you learned from working with snails which will help you in the arena."

Maarck was silent for a moment, then looked at Griffin scrutinizing. "Are you trying to sound me out?"

Griffin was about to shake his head in quick negation, then stopped. "Maybe," he said honestly, "but not for the reasons you think."

The girl from District 2 joined them and Griffin silently cursed her for spoiling the opportunity to win his first ally. Turning to Maarck he said in a low voice: "Care to join me for lunch later? I'll explain my reasons then if you are interested." To his relief the other nodded and both moved on to different stations.

Luckily lunch was not too far away and soon Griffin found himself explaining his alliance idea to Maarck. "So, you know what I can contribute, besides the stuff I might pick up over the course of the remaining training days. Seriously, if you are interested, I'd take you on as ally regardless of your skills, simply because I trust my theory, but it would be good to know what skills the alliance would have in total."

"Only seventeen- and eighteen-year old non-Careers?" Maarck echoed quietly. "You know the Careers take on younger tributes if one from District Four happens to fall outside this age range?"

Griffin nodded. "Yes, I know. But it's the only exception and they didn't take Finnick on two years ago, because he was deemed too young by them. And don't say that because of this my theory has a major flaw. Finnick was a phenomenon. He had training, he had the sponsors, he had luck with his arena. Any of those aspects lacking, and he wouldn't have won. So, only seventeen- and eighteen-year olds."

"And I could drop out of the alliance anytime, fair and square?" Maarck further inquired.

Again Griffin nodded. "After all, there is no guarantee that we'd all make it out of the Bloodbath alive. But I hope that when you decide to drop out, you don't rob us of all those fancy water bottles."

"Then I'm in," Maarck said. "Speaking of those water bottles – here's my skill: analysis of environment. The bottles tell me that there'll be no drinking water available right away, though this is obvious by their mere presence. However, to be more precise: The water we'll encounter will be salty."

"Seaside?" Griffin asked.

Maarck shook his head. "Given the dimensions of the lesser water bottle and the size of the piston with the better one, it won't be as salty as I read ocean water to be. Besides, a seaside arena would scream District Four and I doubt the gamemakers would give us such an arena when District Four won two years ago."

"Maybe they would do it on purpose, so as to make the District Four tributes instant targets even among their own alliance," Griffin mused.

"As I said, the bottles indicate a lesser salt content. So maybe something where the ground is salty by nature and any springs with fresh water surfacing come into contact with enough salty ground to render it undrinkable without the bottles."

"What do you think, could other survival stations tell us more about the arena before we enter it?"

"Most likely," Maarck conceded. "It's my intention to check out the other survival stations this afternoon to see if I can figure out more about the arena."

"That would be brilliant." Griffin grinned. "I have learned how to operate the bottles, but I wouldn't have read the same into them as you. Somehow this is different from looking at systems and figuring out how they work. Even people you can view as a system, but to take equipment and see the larger picture…" There was real appreciation for Maarck's analysis in his voice.

The other shrugged, then looked at his new ally. "So, another skill of yours is to read people?"

"Systems," Griffin corrected. "I used to work with cars. But yeah, if you learn how to read a system, you can read people as well. Look at the Careers. As alliance, they form a really readable system. From what we've seen from the past Hunger Games, they usually have a leader. Given that all of them tend to be strong personalities, it'll be difficult to get that position, so several will be vying for it, and it's clear that the pecking order has to be established during training days. So, who do you think is the leader?"

Maarck looked at the other table. The whole group was rather loud, each trying to outdo the others and intimidate the rest of the tributes as a side-effect. "Nobody yet as far as I can see."

"Anyone you can discount?"

Maarck shrugged. "You tell me."

"If you look closer, but well, I also observed them a bit in the gymnasium, you'll see that the girl from District Four is not vying for leadership. She is rather a follower, though not to be underestimated as a threat on her own. The girl from District One is quite loud, but more in a way as to ensure that the others don't forget that she's there. She doesn't try to dominate others, as a leader would. Her district partner is constantly watching her. Something about her is bothering him. I don't know what it is, but it is keeping him from vying for the top spot," Griffin said. "The other two boys are rather aggressively pursuing the leader's spot."

"And the girl from District Two?"

"She's the one who will graciously let either of them think he's the leader while in reality she is having all the good ideas for the group."

Maarck was astonished. "A grey eminence among the Careers?"

"Yes," Griffin confirmed. "She's the only one checking out the survival stations. The others go for the weapons and intimidation spiel. She knows about the bottles, but should she choose to withhold that knowledge, the rest of them would be doomed. Of course she will tell them about the bottles, but do we know what other knowledge she'll keep to herself to use at an opportune moment?"

"Great," Maarck said sarcastically. "An intelligent Career. Mindless brutes are so much easier to battle."

Griffin laughed.

"So, reader of systems that are people and alliances, whom will you approach next?" Maarck wanted to know.

Surveying the room, Griffin spotted the girl from District 3 sitting with Maarcks' district partner. "What do you make of those two?" he asked.

"Not sure… how about I tell you tomorrow morning?" Maarck suggested.

It was not exactly the answer Griffin had been hoping for, but he saw that given the limited timeframe they were operating with, it would have been unrealistic to expect to reach all of his preferred tributes before they formed other alliances anyway, if they were inclined to enter alliances at all. "Sure," he shrugged therefore in reply. "As such I'll see if I can either catch the girl from District Seven or from District Eleven this afternoon. Preferably both." Just then he saw the girl from District 2 shoot a glance in the direction where he had spotted the girl from District 11. Oh, well, looked as if he had to beat some other alliance to her. Because whatever the girl from District 11 had done that morning, it seemed to have caught the other tribute's eyes.

* * *

 _Maarck Wijngaard, D10, 17Y_

All was quiet in the suite of District 10. Or not… depending on who one was. To be sure, Don, Wendy, and Tracey would claim that all was quiet in their suite at night. But then again, those three were sleeping. Something which was made impossible for Maarck thanks to those three. Because all three were busy competing for first place in who snored loudest. As he lay awake in the darkness, Maarck wished he could do as their escort did – claim that he had important appointments in the evening, which coincidentally would involve staying somewhere else overnight. Unfortunately this was already the second night he lay awake and Maarck knew that sooner or later he would simply fall over from lack of sleep. And going by his luck, it would happen right after the games in the arena began. Which simply was not an option. Therefore he had to find a way to get some sleep. One that preferably did not involve taking some sleeping pill, which undoubtedly would be the Capitol solution for his problem. He did not know how his body would react to such drugs and if he took them all the nights while staying here, he might end up being all sluggish by the time he entered the arena. Which, like no sleep, simply wasn't an option.

Trying to find something other than listening to the three different snores with which to occupy his mind, he got up and went into the living room. This already brought a slight relief in that the snores were not as loud there as they had been in his own room. But Maarck knew that if he didn't find a way to take his mind off the snores, he would still hear them, and hear them louder by the minute because his subconscious would concentrate on them.

His eyes fell on the huge TV screen. Maybe the Capitol program had something on which would occupy his mind enough and make him sleepy at the same time. He examined the TV to figure out how to switch it on, found a fancy remote control and eventually managed to get a picture on the screen and the volume to a level where he didn't have to fear waking up the snoring trio. The colour balance was slightly off, most likely due to his randomly pushing buttons in the attempt to get the volume down, but Maarck was not in the mood to bother with fixing it. Besides, maybe the program got better being slightly discoloured, he mused.

The first program he encountered was a rerun of the Reaping recap. He was just in time to see the girl from District 9 volunteer. He cringed, knowing that after the short period of grace, which the Reaping in District 9 was, his own Reaping would be on screen. He looked so lanky as he extracted himself from among his peers. Not much better than the boy from District 12, though that one was two years younger than him. They both were lank, lacking any visible proof of whatever work they did. And in Maarck's case it wasn't that he didn't have muscles… lugging around sacks of earth or the boxes with the snails had given him a certain strength. But it was not visible. Not like with the boy from District 8 for example. Or not like with his best friend. Back to the comparison with the boy from District 12, they also shared a comparatively well-fed look. Though Maarck desperately hoped, that he had made a better figure during training today than the other boy, who had single-mindedly stayed at one and the same station. At least he himself had gone to several survival stations to learn more about the arena.

This had him think about what he would tell Griffin the next day. While getting a clearer picture of the arena with every station, Maarck had secretly watched his ally. Right after lunch he had been relieved to have found a trustworthy ally, but now looking back he wasn't able to shake the feeling, that Griffin might have used his offer of an alliance as a trick; that he was secretly in alliance with the Careers and was simply attempting to prevent those the Careers might consider as a threat from forming effective alliances of their own if they thought they were part of an alliance which in reality was fake. He had seen no interaction between Griffin and the Careers, but that was to be expected, if he was to be a secret member of their alliance. Likewise seeing Griffin approach the girl from District 11 over the course of the afternoon was to be expected. However, at the same time he himself had managed to breach the subject of an alliance to the girl from District 7 by chance and Griffin had not seemed to be upset about it. So, even if Griffin wanted to set up a fake alliance while he was actually with the Careers, if the potential allies agreed nonetheless, it would be a true alliance thereby foiling Griffin's plan... Or maybe he was just sleep deprived. Well, he could always see how the next day evolved, particularly lunch, as surely latest by lunch any new member of their alliance would join them. And lunch was early enough to tell Griffin the further details of the arena, Maarck decided.

Meanwhile the Reaping program had come to an end, only to move on to the Parade. As he was not in the mood to see himself dressed up as one half of Noah's Ark, he changed the channel. It took him a moment to realize what was being shown, being unfamiliar with the concept of a fashion show, but it proofed to be surprisingly entertaining, not the least because of his accidentally upsetting the colour-balance. As he watched men and women staggering over a narrow strip of a stage in shoes useless for any significant occupation – including walking – he was captivated by the fact that aside from the colourful and strange clothes, they also sported strange and colourful hairdos and even skin tones. And not all of them could be attributed to his clash with the remote control. Seeing this, Maarck wondered if to the fashionable of the Capitol the outfits the tributes wore at the Parade really were as ridiculous as the tributes felt them to be. He even went so far as to imagine a couple of fashion victims copying the Noah's Ark look he himself had sported at the parade. He wouldn't put it past the Capitolites.

Ever more strangely dressed people walked across the screen, always accompanied by polite applause from the audience, and Maarck's thoughts turned to the next occasion he would face such an audience: the interviews. Maybe, he mused, he should suggest to his prep team that they dye his hair purple. Then at least he'd be guaranteed to stand out among the crowd of tributes. And who knew, maybe exhibiting such an inkling of fashion sense would even garner him sponsors. He snorted. Yeah, and the day after he'd enter the arena only to find that unless they were provided with a lush southern climate with lots of flowers and birds he would have no chance of blending in with the environs at all. Because he doubted that the dye could be removed by washing his hair once or twice. And as his first day of training had him told that a lush warm climate was not to be expected for the arena, it was better that he not dye his hair purple. True, he would then already blend in among the other tributes during his interview, but surviving the Bloodbath was far more important than getting a sponsor or two.

Eventually the monotonous description of the fabric creations being presented on the screen, the repetitive raptures of the commentator, the mild applause, lulled Maarck into the longed for sleep.

Thankfully the escort, who had found him early in the morning on the sofa, had been more than understanding. And if he winked at Maarck during breakfast, he could well live with it.

The morning was pleasantly spent at the edible insect station. At least for Maarck it was pleasant. Other tributes, who ventured there, were slightly disgusted at the thought of eating the crawling creatures shown on the screen. Only few were realistic enough to accept the fact that in the arena hunger would triumph over disgust and insects would become a welcome addition to an otherwise meagre menu.

"In the least you could use them as bait for fishing," the trainer suggested a bit exasperated to the girl from District 1 who had been dragged to that station by her alliance partner from District 2. Or had she followed the other to make sure the other knew she was around? Maarck asked himself, recalling Griffin's analysis of the Careers from the previous day.

"Why would I need to fish if there are provisions in the Cornucopia?" the girl asked, eyeing the insects with some revulsion.

"Because the games last longer than the provisions, stupid," her partner hissed.

"Well…" The girl seemed to ponder this remark for a moment, then said: "In this case, I'll go and practice with the light spear. This way I can get fish without having to use these tiny crawling monsters."

Maarck's eyes followed the retreating figure with mild disbelieve. Did she really think it would be easier to fish with a light spear than using a fish trap with some bait to lure in unsuspecting fish? He himself had learned how to fashion fish traps the day before, but he doubted that he could have learned how to handle the light spare in the same time and get the same amount of fish out of it. A quick glance at the girl from District 2 told him, that she too thought it unlikely that her alliance partner possessed the skill to catch sufficient fish this way.

But her description of insects as crawling monsters reminded Maarck of something. Waiting till the other Career – the intelligent grey eminence among the Careers – had had enough of insects as well, he then addressed the trainer: "Is there also a program here among the stations about poisonous insects? While I don't think there'll be outright deadly insects in the arena, I'd like to know if there are insects I have to be careful around as too many of them attacking at once still would be unpleasant."

The trainer looked mildly surprised, but then obviously recalled that due to the snail business Maarck was likely to know a bit more about insects than the regular tribute. He nodded and loaded the file. "You are right however, only mildly poisonous insects. We don't even have tracker jackers among the files this year."

Maarck was relieved to know that he wouldn't have to fear tracker jackers, but then again, those preferred to build their nests in more wooded areas than he had deduced the arena would be. Indeed the most poisonous insects he could find in that file were ants and a few beetles. Though not discarding the ants entirely, he was more interested in the beetles. Those secreted tiny drops of poison at the legs as a defensive mechanism. Poison one could collect to coat weapons with. Griffin had told him that the throwing stars he had been practicing with wouldn't penetrate deep enough to result in death, unless happening to severe a main artery, but that they could cause damage enough to irritate, slow or even incapacitate an enemy tribute, depending on where they hit the enemy. So, why not enhance this effect by coating the tips of the stars – or whatever they'd use in the arena as throwing weapon – with natural poison? Maarck found this idea rather promising. So promising indeed that he decided to try out those throwing stars himself in the afternoon.

At the end of the day Maarck was rather satisfied with himself. The alliance had held true and he had managed to make a few of the stars stick in the target. Off centre of course, but well, even a poison irritated scratch to a tribute's leg could be a real advantage to him in the arena.

His good mood was instantly dampened when he entered District 10's suite. His mentor Don literally pounced on him.

"What do I hear about you agreeing on an alliance with District Six?" the mentor demanded to know.

Maarck was taken aback. What was it to Don with whom he chose to form an alliance? His mentor hadn't broached the subject of alliances all through the train ride, he had not mentioned it with a single word since they had entered the Capitol, he had not even asked Maarck yesterday about how his day at training had been, unlike Wendy had done with Tracey. And now all of a sudden, he wanted to tell him what to do? Anger welled up in Maarck. Luckily the others had decided to give them a wide berth.

He forced himself to count to ten and take another deep breath before saying as calmly as he could: "If you have heard of my being in an alliance with Griffin Doyle, then you have heard correctly."

"In which case I forbid it!" Don announced.

Maarck simply shook his head. The nerve… Then something else dawned upon him. "Don, face it, you are not in a position to forbid me to form an alliance with whomever I see fit. You can of course deny me support in form of sponsors and gifts. But I'd be a fool anyway to count on sponsors getting me through the games alive. From what I know, I might not even get sponsors, even with your utmost support. So I have to rely on myself and to a certain extent the help others can give me."

"But District Six is no alliance material," Don insisted. "Their mentors…" He shook his head.

Maarck sighed. Why was he to be the reasonable one in this discussion? "Griffin is not his mentors. They might be hooked to drugs, but he is not. And I'm not relying on them, I'm relying on him. Same as he relies on me, no matter what my mentor says. If my being in an alliance with Griffin means you have to deal with his mentors, then tough luck. I'll be dealing with Careers I can stand even less than you can stand District Six' mentors, in case you forgot."

Now it was Don's turn to be taken aback. For Maarck to talk back in such a way… "Grand words for a wimp like you!" he growled.

"Don't I wish for more visible muscles either?" Maarck shot back with a wry grin.

"Well…," Don said with a sigh, "maybe you might have the right attitude after all. I'll see what I can do about the sponsors. But," he shot the tribute another dark glance, "you can be sure I'll only send such gifts which you can't share with others."

Maark nodded, relieved that at least his mentor had accepted the situation as it was and would not deny him his support.

"So, tell me, what are you able to do in the arena, with or without allies. If I'm to find you some sponsors, I'd better have something useful to advertise."

And for the first time, as he told his mentor about the throwing stars and his idea about insect poisons, Maarck felt as if he really had a chance.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Villem liked the second day of training much better than the first, because on the second day even the timid tributes tried out weapons. While he would never deny the usefulness of survival knowledge, he liked the weapon stations much better. To him weapons showed far more how willing a tribute was to survive in the arena than demonstrating how to light a proper fire. Of course a fire could also kill, but he had yet to see a tribute use fire as offensive weapon. Then, and only then he might become more interested in how the tributes fared at the survival stations.

One of the most interesting things this afternoon was the boy from District 10 trying out throwing stars after having requested them from the trainer.

"O ho! Lo and behold!" he muttered to himself, his eyes sparkling with interest.

A fellow gamemaker close by, while not hearing his words, saw the sparkle and got curious. "Found something interesting?" she inquired.

"Luxia," Villem acknowledged her presence. "I find it quite peculiar to see a non-trained tribute request a weapon which has been introduced only the day before to another non-trained tribute by one of the trainers."

"You sense an alliance?"

He nodded. "Looks likely. Though the boy from District Ten clearly is not used to throwing projectiles, unlike the boy from District Six for whom the throwing stars were first fetched from the depot."

Luxia watched the boy and, remembering that she had seen him earlier at the insect station, she called up the log from that station, to see if there was something which might tell them why, if not used to throwing things, the boy suddenly was rather intent on learning how to throw those stars. A feral grin spread over her face when she indeed found what she had been looking for. She held her notepad so that Villem could see it.

"Poisonous insects?" he asked curiously.

"Bet you that he came to the conclusion that coating the tips of those throwing stars would make them of greater efficiency than the pure stars alone. And while he must know from the files that none of the poisons found in the insects is potent enough to kill another tribute, he also knows that every little bit helps in the arena."

Villem let out a bright, raucous laugh. "Smart lad, I'd say. And if he and the boy from District Six are truly forming an alliance, I almost pity those from the Big Alliance."

Luxia joined him in another round of laughter. Eventually she said: "I take it, we'll have throwing stars in the Cornucopia?"

Villem nodded. Being so fond of weapons it was only natural that he was also in charge of the weapons for the Cornucopia. So no convincing another gamemaker that they absolutely had to add another weapon, even if it would most likely end up in the hands of the Big Alliance, and they were after all trying to even the field a little bit by limiting the weapons in the Cornucopia to begin with. "If only to entice either of the lads to go into that first fight. Though smart as they seem to be, I dare say the Big Alliance will get the stars uncontested. But at least nobody can accuse us of favouring them, by denying other districts their favourite weapons."

"Then I'll go and talk to Jolaos about the initial equipment. If we have throwing stars, the tributes must be able to carry them, so a change in the belt might be required. Don't want them to hurt themselves with the stars – only others," Luxia said with a tinkling laugh and headed off to look for the gamemaker responsible for the tributes' uniform for the arena.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	19. Chapter 17 - Training: Confidence

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 17: Training – It's all about confidence**

 _Thalia Lasceaux, Mentor District 3_

Thalia checked the clock and sighed with relief. She still had about another hour and consequently enough time for another cup of coffee before she'd head over to the other lounge to try and find someone willing to sponsor Fancy during the busy lunch hour. These were her fourth games as mentor and she began to understand why some of the mentors did not bother going to the sponsors' lounge till the training scores were revealed. It was continually difficult to convince the people willing to put money behind a tribute, that this tribute should be one from District 3. That the kids from District 3 had just as much punch in them as the kids from District 7 or District 10. That they weren't all tech-kids, unable to do anything without wires and electricity. To be sure, a lot of kids from the technology district did know all about wires and electricity, so it was natural that they should look upon this as their first choice of weapon. But it didn't mean that they weren't able to stick a knife in another tribute's throat if need be.

The mental mention of knives brought her current tribute to mind and Thalia sighed again as she poured herself that cup of coffee. An older woman next to her heard the sigh and said: "What, lassie, not five years into your career as mentor and you are already sighing like an old pro. What only will you do when you reach my age?"

Thalia laughed softly. "Sigh louder?" she suggested. "And with more pathos?"

The older woman grinned. "Good idea."

Suddenly Thalia recognized the woman as Wendy, the mentor of District 10. "So, tell me, how loud do you sigh, considering your current tribute?"

Wendy caught on instantly. "Those two together are too confident for their own good." And to prove her point, she let out a sigh of her own.

Thalia laughed. "I think, they are already too confident for their own good each on their own. I'd never have thought those two would get together as allies."

"Well, yes, both of them are rather dominant. And both undoubtedly think that they have the upper hand in this alliance."

The younger woman nodded. "Something however tells me that I don't stand a chance should I attempt to warn Fancy not to underestimate her ally."

"Same here. In fact, Tracey thinks she should be the one telling me how to do my job to ensure that she wins. Or at least stands a chance at winning."

"It's really a pity that both girls are promising in their own ways. As it is they might as well be their own worst enemies." Thalia sighed again.

"At least their ferociousness ensures that both of them will get somewhat decent training scores," Wendy guessed. "It might even get them sponsors. Now, if only Tracey could quit scowling at the mere mention of Capitolites. I already fear for her interview. In this I envy you your tribute."

Thalia had to concede that Wendy had a point there. Serving scores of patrons every evening at her dinner cart had taught Fancy to be friendly, polite, even charming if she wanted to. Feeling for the older woman, Thalia tried to help her. She recalled something she had seen in passing at the station. "Why not have the stylist dress her up all in black with heavy dark makeup. Apparently there is some subculture among the Capitol kids who love this dark, my parents don't understand me, I'm against everything and the world in particular look. Tracey could scowl as much as she wanted then. And while not your classical sponsors, these kids are bound to have serious money. Sure, regulations say they can only give so much money without parental consent, but every bit helps. And some most likely will also get their parents' consent…"

"You know, lassie, for someone not five years into the business you already have some good ideas. Aside from the kids, there must be a whole industry here in the Capitol catering to those very kids, who might be interested in sponsoring Tracey as their new poster girl. This idea truly has potential."

The two women grinned at each other before heading to the sponsors' lounge – Thalia in quest of general sponsors and Wendy to find out how to contact key persons of specific industries who usually did not sponsor tributes.

* * *

 _Tracey Chios, D10, 15Y_

Tracey was furious. That in itself was no new state to her; indeed it seemed that she was living in a perpetual state of fury ever since the Reaping. But somehow everything and everyone here seemed to give her a reason to renew her fury. Right now the reason for her current state was that chit of a girl from District 6.

Going by her plan to form her own strong alliance, she had observed the other tributes this morning in the gymnasium as she had wandered more or less idly from station to station, not really trying out anything so far. So when the girl from District 6 had headed for the obstacle course, Tracey could tell that she was one of those tributes, whose strength was swiftness. Being further the same age as herself, cemented in Tracey's mind the impression that this girl would be the perfect member for her alliance.

Waiting for the opportune moment, she had been surprised to see an opening right after the girl had finished her first round on the course. Tracey thought she had done rather well, though not too well, something which would have her go over the course a couple of times more to see better results, so she was surprised to see the girl head for the periphery of the gymnasium. However, not one to let such a chance pass by without seizing it, she quickly intercepted her.

"Hi, I'm Tracey," she said. "Care to join my alliance?" she came straight to the point.

The other stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights. "Cassiopeia," she mumbled. "Your alliance?" she repeated with a frown.

"Yes, my alliance," Tracey reiterated. "With the Careers all sticking together, we only have a chance if we don't act like frightened sheep running all in different directions. Together we can make a stand. I tell you, that by the time we enter the arena, I'll have assembled a group that's just as tough and cunning and determined as the Careers. They will be in for a nasty surprise. They won't rule the Cornucopia and the arena this year – we will."

Cassiopeia stared at her incredulously. "Just as tough and cunning and determined as the Careers?"

"Why, yes!" Was Cassiopeia somewhat dim-witted that she constantly repeated everything Tracey said? Perhaps she might have to rethink her assessment of the girl as potential ally. But then again, a not so bright ally would be more inclined to just follow her lead, so… "Just do I as say, and you'll see how well it will all turn out."

At this, Cassiopeia shook her head. "You are delusional Tracey. Just look around you. Determined, yes I give you that. About all tributes here are determined to survive as long as possible, in the best case till the end and make it out of the arena alive as victor. Cunning I can also see might apply to several among the eighteen tributes that are not Careers. But tough? Let's face it, for most of us, the time here at the Capitol is the first time we have enough to eat to not only chase the hunger away but to be truly satiated. We might not have been starving at home, but well-fed is something different. And don't tell me that you don't feel it in your own bones too." She eyed the girl closely. Yes, like herself, Tracey was not as thin as perhaps the girl from District 12 or the girl from District 9, but she was nothing compared to the tributes from the Career districts. "So nix the thought of ruling the Cornucopia. It would be suicide to attempt that. Besides, if you want to assemble an alliance strong enough to make a stand against the Careers, you'd have to win older tributes for your alliance as well, and seriously, I can't see them obey to your command as clearly you picture yourself the leader of this alliance. In fact, I can't see me obey to your command, so, no, thanks, but I won't join your alliance. Good luck though." And with this Cassiopeia swiftly walked away only to begin running after the boy from District 12 who was jogging the perimeter of the gymnasium.

How dare this Cassiopeia reject the invitation to her alliance and then run after a boy Tracey had with one glance dismissed as lacking guts? Shooting a scornful look in the direction of the girl, who was too stupid to seize the golden opportunity Tracey had offered her, she headed to the weapon stations. She needed something on which to take out her frustration and attacking a training dummy with some weapon might achieve just that.

Soon she found herself hacking at one of the dummies with a battle axe she had no idea how to handle, but the fact that the trainer had thought it wise to seek cover behind the weapon counter told her that if not correct she at least handled the weapon in a most intimidating way, which in its own way was rather satisfying. Unfortunately her arms tired sooner than her fury and frustration abated and she was forced to seek some other outlet or at least rest a bit and catch her breath before attacking the dummy again.

Next to her a slender girl half a head taller than she was receiving some instructions on how to wield a short sword the trainer called gladius. She was rather good at it, for a girl from the tech district, as the number on her back told Tracey that the girl was from District 3. This gave her the idea that maybe this short sword, this gladius, might be a weapon comparatively easy to learn, and she decided to try it out herself. With renewed determination she headed to the counter to exchange the axe for a gladius. The trainer asked cautiously: "Do you know how to handle it or do you want me to show you?"

"I'll figure it out myself. Can't be too difficult," Tracey said, looking over to the girl from District 3.

The trainer accepted her answer, though his face clearly showed that he did not share Tracey's opinion, which only served to bring her fury up full power again.

Stupid Capitol trainers, she thought as she headed over to the already battered dummy. Indeed the gladius was a bit easier to handle than the battle axe, seeing how it was lighter, but it proved surprisingly difficult to wield it with precision. More than once the blade slipped off the dummy without leaving a mark. But it had a certain advantage over the axe. The gladius could also be thrust, and by the time they were told to go to the adjoining dining hall for lunch, the dummy was in a rather bad shape.

Grabbing a tray, she sat down at a random table.

"May I join you?" a voice said from behind her. Looking up, Tracey saw the girl from District 3. Pondering the question for a moment, she eventually shrugged. Might as well as not have a companion for lunch. Besides, who was to say that she had not impressed the slightly older girl in such a way, that she would be willing to join Tracey's alliance? Tracey then and there decided that a girl with some sword skills was infinitely more valuable as ally than a girl who could only run.

"I'm Fancy," the girl introduced herself and Tracey gave her name in return. "I saw you with the gladius. Thought it was a rather easy weapon, seeing that a girl from the technology district could handle it so well after only short instructions, didn't you?" she said a little smug.

Tracey bristled inwardly, but she forced herself to appear calm and not scowl more than what was becoming her trademark face.

"Let me tell you that it requires years of practice. But if one happens to be a cook in District Three, then it all looks easy. To me the gladius is just a little different from the big cooking knife I'm used to at home." The girl went on.

Tracey inwardly rolled her eyes, while the sensible part of her brain reminded her that if Fancy really had years under her belt in handling knives, she was really a valuable ally. Not to mention cooking skills. Hadn't she, back home in the Justice Hall, decided that she would definitely need an ally who could cook? All the more important not to drive her off by appearing wholly unsociable. "Nah," she therefore said nonchalantly. "I was just trying out as many weapons as possible. You'll never know what weapon you can get your hands on and I'd like to get a feel on as many as possible. I might try knife throwing or hatchet throwing after lunch." That was not completely true in that it had not been her plan when she had taken up the weapons. But it sounded good, showed no weakness, and really, throwing things at targets might be just as satisfying as hacking at a dummy.

"Good idea. Long range weapons can come in handy," Fancy agreed.

"My thoughts exactly." And for the first time since the Reaping there was something akin to a small grin gracing Tracey's lips. "I already know hand-to-hand combat. After all, what's a tribute if one is used to wrestle with sheep?"

"Sheep?" Fancy echoed.

"Yep, it's a family tradition. Sheep farming that is," Tracey explained between bites. "Possibly since before the cataclysm. We have both types, those for meat and those for wool. Though of course we don't let the meat of a wool sheep go to waste, should it have to be put down." She could see the other file away the information Tracey was giving. She could see Fancy translating it into useful skills in an ally in the arena. Good. Time to go in for the proverbial kill. "So, what do you say… interested in pooling our skills? As allies we could truly make a difference regarding the 'the Careers rule it all' spiel."

"Just the two of us or someone else as well?" Fancy asked, considering the proposal.

"Well, this morning I would have said the more the merrier, but seeing the performance of some of the tributes… let's say it makes one appreciate the right skills all the more." Again this was not entirely truthful, but if it helped convince Fancy… Besides, Tracey had still not entirely forgiven the girl from District 6 for calling her delusional. And if she knew one thing, it was how to carry a grudge.

"And the right attitude," Fancy added with a grin.

Tracey nodded. "So, if we find another tribute with the right disposition of mind and useful skills, I won't say no to adding him or her to our alliance, but otherwise we might as well do without them."

"Sounds good to me," Fancy said. "I'm in."

Tracey longed to do a small victory dance right then and there, but well, it might be a little prematurely. Better save that for when her tactic had proved to be the right one and she was being handed the victory crown. This of course meant that she had to outlive her newly won ally, but she knew that latest when they came down to the Final Eight, the moment usually even the Career alliance broke apart, they would part ways, and on her own, the girl from District 3 certainly wouldn't stand a chance against the first Career she'd encounter. And then, acting as if solely bent of revenging her fallen ally, Tracey would take out the Career in question and be two steps closer to winning. Not to mention that such a move should get her some sponsor support for the last leg of the games. Yes, it was all falling into place.

In the afternoon Tracey indeed tried out the throwing weapons, but somehow she liked the hatchet more than the knives. Perhaps because the Careers were continuously showing off their skills at the knives station. If not for the careful looks with which they measured each other, one would have thought them long lost friends who finally found each other again to now enjoy some friendly rivalry at throwing knives. Tracey could have gagged at this display, while deep inside her, a tiny part allowed herself to miss her friends from back home.

Collecting her hatchet once more from where it had hit the floor instead of the target, Tracey frowned when she saw a young boy standing at her throwing spot, hatchet in hand and waiting for her to clear the range. While it would give her some pleasure to just remain standing there simply to annoy the boy, she knew that it would only have the trainers ultimately remove her from the throwing range and most likely ban her from it as well. And this was not worth it. Not when she was just getting the hang of throwing the hatchet. Anytime soon and she would actually hit the target.

As soon as she was behind the throwing line, the boy lifted his hatched and with practised ease threw it at the target. It stuck dead in the centre. And what was worse, he had the audacity to grin patronisingly at her. If not for the 7 on his back, Tracey would have hated him instantly and with all that she had. As it was, she was only annoyed – a lot.

"See, that's how it is done," the boy said and Tracey fought the impulse to not wait for the arena but strangle the arrogant child right here and now. "If you want, I can show you how to do it. After all, it's not as if anyone outside of District Seven knows how to handle a hatchet properly, and not even at home everyone knows. Only those with the true heart of the district know." He told her with all the air of importance of one with the true heart as he called it. "If I was just two years older, the Careers would be begging me to join their alliance. As it is, they dismiss me just because of my age. Well, their loss. But surely, others won't be so stupid." He peered at her with the most unnerving stare.

Had she heard right? Was this boy actually telling her that he expected her to take him on as ally? Did he think that just because he was good at throwing axes or hatchets he would be all that special? He was the kind of tribute the Careers killed for their early morning exercise. "Uh, why don't you try and form a little alliance?" Tracey suggested, hoping he would get the point. She had no problems telling him off with stronger words if need be, but well, she was not completely without something called pity, and it was only natural to pity those destined to be among the first victims, especially if they were among the youngest tributes.

"Yeah, sure. And next you suggest to the gamemakers to just hand the crown to the most pathetic tribute and be done with the games," he scoffed. "The girl from District Nine is so ill and so weak, that she won't survive a day in the arena without the fancy Capitol medicine. And the girl from District Five is practically glowing with pride that somehow her mentors have managed to force her district partner to be her ally. Or why else would they stick together as much as they do?"

While Tracey could not fault his line of arguments, it didn't change her mind as to taking him on as ally. "Sorry, I already have an ally and it's an exclusive alliance for two." This was not quite true regarding the exclusiveness, but well, the boy didn't need to know. And it finally had the desired effect that he left her alone so she could get back into the swing of throwing hatchets. By the end of the day, she had managed to hit the target only once, but she still felt pretty good about herself. Now, if only her mentor performed her part as well as Tracey had hers, nothing could go wrong.

* * *

 _Fancy Yeo, D3, 17Y_

Fancy stood in front of the wardrobe and frowned at the assortment of clothes presented to her in there. She had showered after the training and was now in the process of dressing for dinner. Yesterday it had been easy. She had simply remained in the outfit her stylist had chosen for the parade. Yes, it had been a ridiculous outfit, but well, Fancy figured that since she would most likely wear something equally uncomfortable, overdone and possibly ridiculous at the interview, she might as well get used to wearing such outfits so that she could appear all natural to the audience. That way, she thought, she would be all the better able to concentrate on the brief conversation with Caesar Flickerman and hopefully win some more sponsors. As such she was now staring at a number of rather garish dresses, which according to the chosen selection however presented the current fashion for fancy occasions for young women. Eventually she chose a flaring green dress which went down to her knees and sported pink, yellow and blue fabric leaves at most hem-lines, designed obviously to resemble feathers. Then she forced her feet into some rather uncomfortable strappy heels, but again she thought that if she was used to wearing such shoes – or as used to as she could get within a few short days – then whatever the stylist presented to her would feel as comfortable as the sturdy flat shoes she wore at home.

Her appearance at the dinner table caused quite a few raised eyebrows, but when she explained her reasons for dressing up in such a style, her mentor approved of it.

"I've not yet met with a tribute from our district, who was so well organized," Thalia said. "I remember my own time and how I hated the stylist who forced me into high heels. I thought my only chance for sponsors would be the local clowns' guild as surely I'd make a laughing stock out of myself stumbling all over my feet on stage."

"So, any advice on how to avoid going down as the tribute, who was as wobbly as your favourite jelly pudding?" Fancy asked, secretly rubbing her feet under the table as the shoes were really uncomfortable.

"Avoid sandals and insist on pumps. Peep-toe if need be, but at least then you'll have that tiny bit of more support for your feet which might be all the difference between jelly and passable." Thalia said matter-of-factly.

"Aren't we glad that men aren't forced to wear heels?" Beetee asked Tybor and rolled his eyes at this feminine chatter.

"Don't make me mention this idea to the stylists and about every Capitol resident I meet," Thalia threatened. "You know that it will take them only one year to adopt this idea as their very own and then next year you'll have to wear them, too."

"Not necessarily. I'm all confident that next year I can stay at home because either of these two will win and take my place next year." Beetee finished this discussion with a grin.

Fancy and Tybor both focused on their plates, not daring to look at each other or their mentors, fearful of revealing their innermost thoughts, yet each knowing too well what the other thought. Tybor certainly didn't believe he stood a chance, while Fancy was quite certain that the younger boy knew, well, that she herself thought she stood a chance, and a good one at that.

"Talking about mentioning ideas to the stylists," Thalia picked up the conversation, "while I can't guarantee anything, would you like me to drop a hint with them, Fancy?"

Fancy pondered this. Then she had an idea. "Something which would highlight a carrot rose pinned to it."

Thalia shot her a questioning look, but Fancy indicated that as it was part of her strategy, she didn't want to discuss it in front of Tybor. Not that she thought her district partner would use it against her, but there were still two days of training ahead of them and as such too many opportunities to say the wrong thing to the wrong tribute. She didn't want her idea to be snatched up by a Career from District 1 or 2 as those would have their interviews before Fancy. Luckily Thalia was good at reading such hints so waited patiently till the boys took their dessert to have a man to man chat in Tybor's room and leave the girls to all that talk about make-up and clothes as Beetee called it.

"Okay, spill it," Thalia said.

"I was thinking about how important the interview is for winning sponsors. However, the only topic I'd feel really comfortable talking about is food and cooking. And while I don't know if cooks or restaurants or such sponsor tributes, I know that everyone has to eat, so most likely anyone in the audience can relate to me if I talk about food." Fancy explained. The idea of trying to make the interview take on the direction of food for topic had occurred her while she was riding the train to the Capitol, but it was not till Thalia's question earlier tonight, that she had gotten the idea for the needed opening.

Thalia nodded. "That's a sound theory."

"So, if I were to wear a dress on which I could pin a carrot rose which I had crafted right before the interview and which I would then present to Caesar, it would instantly take the interview in the right direction, wouldn't it?"

"Most likely," the mentor agreed. "Not the least because Caesar is willing to follow any lead a tribute offers if it makes for a better interview because the tribute is more relaxed. So, I'll try and convince the stylists to go at least for a single coloured bodice for your gown."

"Thank you!" Fancy said.

"No, thank you. Usually the tributes are so focussed on the games that they forget everything surrounding it. Some even don't have an idea how to approach training." Thalia confided in her.

"I've seen that." Fancy agreed, thinking of what she had witnessed in the gymnasium that day. "Some are single-mindedly committing themselves to only one station, while others try as many stations as possible, though without deriving much benefit from it. Take for example Tracey."

"Tracey?" Thalia echoed. It was rare for tributes to learn the names of their fellow tributes, unless they really stood out. And going by this, Thalia could not remember any girl with that name standing out when she had watched the recaps of the Reaping.

"She's the girl from District Ten," Fancy elaborated and Thalia remembered the scowling girl. "She has a lot of potential. She has stamina, for a girl her age has a strength not to be discounted – it comes from wrestling with sheep she says – and an aggressiveness which labels her a fighter."

"Sounds like a dangerous one. Certainly not one to overlook." Thalia commented.

Fancy nodded. "But here's the catch: She doesn't pause to reign in her aggression long enough to see that by asking the trainers how to handle the weapon of her current choice properly she might get all the more efficient. She thinks her aggressiveness will either keep the others at bay or help her come out on top of a fight in the arena."

"Well, you'll never know if aggressiveness combined with the surge of adrenaline she'll then experience won't achieve just that."

"Yes, so as I said, she has a lot of potential. Which is, why I agreed, when she asked me if I wanted to become her ally."

At this Thalia raised her eyebrows. "An alliance with that girl?"

Fancy grinned lightly. "Well, as the saying goes: Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. And while in the end everyone in the arena will be my enemy, it's better to keep an eye on those, who are even more dangerous than the rest. I would do the same with the Careers if I could, but that would be too dangerous." She also thought to herself that by keeping Tracey around as her ally she could try and counterbalance the aggressiveness in such a way that the younger girl would not become totally unhinged by the arena. Fancy really feared that all the anger Tracey seemed to carry around with her could otherwise nudge her in the wrong direction and take her down the path Enobaria had descended. She had not forgotten her father's words and surely, Tracey's father would wish the same for his daughter. So by keeping an eye on Tracey she was doing a truly good thing.

"While at the same time profiting from her fighting spirit and other strengths." Thalia summed it up.

Yes, there was that as well. Fancy knew that she certainly was not as altruistic as she would like to be. And she was not sure, that if she could take down some Careers by sacrificing her ally when they had reached the Final Eight, she would hesitate to do that.

"Well, from what you say, you could have done worse in selecting an ally. Just make sure that you don't become dependent of her," her mentor advised.

"Oh, don't worry," Fancy quickly assured her. "Tracey might be a good fighter and thinks she is tough and most likely thinks she is the leader in our little team, but she can never match me when it comes to reading people – and in her case – playing people. At home I have interacted with so many different people in my job; it's rather easy to see which buttons I need to push with Tracey to keep the upper hand."

If Thalia didn't share that view, she wisely kept her opinion to herself, knowing that ultimately she had only little influence on what happened to her tribute in the arena.

The next day, Fancy focussed on the survival stations. She wanted to learn what material she might have at hand to make a fire, but also what edible plants she would encounter. She was rather disappointed to see that this station only showed the plants on a screen instead of presenting specimen of the arena's vegetation for real.

"Why just the screen?" she asked. "I could learn so much more if I saw the actual plants." She complained to the attending trainer.

"Sure, we just ship loads of plants from a distant arena to the training centre every day, so that all interested tributes can examine fresh examples and not wilted ones which would only confuse them," the trainer replied with mild sarcasm.

Fancy had to bite her lips to not reply that the Capitol was doing the exact same thing every day with the goods harvested in District 11 or with the fish caught in District 4, so that getting a few plants from the arena would not be all that difficult. "It's just that I could examine them much better then, than by just staring at a screen. The screen can't teach me how the stem or the leaves or whichever part of the plant feels like. It can't teach me how it smells if rubbed or broken apart. So it can't really teach me if I found the edible variety, or the almost similar looking but non-edible variety, which will give me a stomach ache." She explained.

Against his will, the trainer looked somewhat impressed. "You think you can decipher all that, if you had the proper specimen in front of you?"

Fancy nodded confidently. "Just think of vegetables. If they take a bad turn you can smell it. Take for example potatoes. Frost is what they should not be exposed to. It changes their smell, but also the taste in the boiled potato, several days before the damage becomes visible. Other foods are the same. But by having sharp senses, one can tell if the food is all right, if it would be still fine if cooked and thoroughly heated, or if it is spoilt."

The trainer pondered her words for a moment, then said: "Okay, here's the deal: I go and talk to the head trainer to see if we have something on which to test those sharp senses you claim you have for your private session tomorrow. Mind you, it will not be the same plants you'll encounter in the arena, but then at least you could show off that skill of yours."

Fancy pondered this suggestion. "Would that be allowed? Wouldn't it be against the rules or something to get me special things for my private session?" O, how she would like to say yes to the deal.

The trainer shook his head. "I don't think so. We aren't procuring the actual arena vegetation, so aren't revealing information to you the other tributes have no access to. But getting you those other test objects to me sounds like getting another tribute his favourite weapon. According to the rules we are to give them any weapon they like which are not firearms or explosives. And as plants are neither firearms nor explosives, I think we can manage that."

At this Fancy grinned broadly at the trainer. "Thank you. I'd really like that!" It sure would get her a few extra points with the gamemakers and help her get a decent training score. A training score, which would show all potential sponsors that this girl from District 3 had very good chances in those games. Yes, it would also alert the other tributes, especially the Careers that she was not to be underestimated, but Fancy thought it was worth it.

The trainer's words however had reminded her that like with the interview, she had better come up with a strategy for her private session with the gamemakers. It was not just the question what she wanted to show them, but also how she wanted to present it. Like with good food, a good presentation could be crucial. There was nothing really impressing in showing them how she could light a fire, then examine whatever plants and finally attack a dummy with a gladius after having pulled said dummy from one end of the gym to the other to show off her strength. While those were the points she wanted to present, she wanted it to stick in the minds of the gamemakers for at least the next three tributes. So, what if she first trapped the dummy and bound it… No, she would need a number of dummies. One she would trap and bind, the others she'd have to arrange as if hiding and waiting to ambush her to get back their trapped ally. Then she would drag the dummy to a pretend shelter, light a fire and prepare some food from whatever specimen she was given tomorrow. She would purposely select those items which were poisoned or otherwise tampered with and therefore inedible, misleading the gamemakers. Just then she would hurry outside, gladius in hand, to fight the presumably ambushing dummies. Then she'd return to the shelter, kill the last dummy and accidentally upset the food so that it would be lost. Only to turn to the gamemakers and tell them with a smirk, that it wasn't really a loss, as all those things had been rotten, spoilt or poisonous and that she had only mixed them together as special 'medicine' for the caught dummy while waiting for his allies to approach.

Now that sounded like a good presentation. Which meant, she should learn at least something about traps, perhaps also something about shelter making, but she'd also need to improve her skills with the gladius, if she wanted to make it believable that she'd take on at least two dummies with this weapon in a fight. Nothing, however, which was not achievable. With increased confidence, Fancy approached the trap station.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Clangs, thuds and other noises filled the gymnasium and floated upwards to the gallery where the gamemakers were observing the tributes.

With bleary eyes, Nestor looked down at the twenty-four kids. Why, o why did they have to be so loud?

"Rough night?" Decius asked and put a cup of strong coffee in front of his fellow gamemaker along with a surprisingly simple slice of golden toast.

Nestor nodded with a little grunt. "There are some invitations one simply can't refuse. Not even if one's time is already taken up completely by the games."

Decius winced slightly. While also an honour, an invitation to one of the President's parties during the actual games, training days included, was one of the most dreaded things among the gamemakers. Simply because one couldn't refuse them, no matter how busy one was, if one intended to see another Hunger Games season. While everyone considered the games the point where morale in the districts was lowest and consequently the Capitol and the President in particular should feel most confident, the President was also the most paranoid during that time. Any indication of disobedience was swiftly dealt with, when throughout the rest of the year, powerful friends and family at least stood a chance to intervene in the suspect's favour.

"Damn party lasted till four in the morning," Nestor complained in between sips of coffee.

"Then be grateful that this is already the second day of training. The wild trying out of weapons is over as is the need to grunt and shout while handling weapons as so many of the tributes seem to think is necessary when they first try out a weapon. Those at the weapons today are either taking a particular weapon serious and are all focussed or are the quiet ones by nature, who have spent yesterday at the survival stations." Decius commented.

"Still, they are way too loud for my liking."

Just then a shout of triumph could be heard from down below. Leaning forward to see who was the source of the shout, Decius made out the girl from District 10 grinning wildly. He shook his head. "While it's good to see that this girl is now concentrating on one weapon instead of randomly attacking the dummies with whatever weapon she can lay her hands on, she is still making the same mistakes as yesterday."

"Who do you mean?" Nestor asked and peered downstairs as well.

"Over there," Decius indicated. "She's constantly refusing the trainers' help. It's a miracle she has not already hurt another tribute by accident."

Nestor pulled up the trainers' notes for that girl on his pad. "Ouch! Doesn't she know that those who are overly confident usually are the first to get killed in the arena?"

Decius laughed lightly. "Of course not. Those tributes always are too confident to realize that in the end they are their own worst enemies. But who knows, maybe she is just trying to fool everyone and is absolutely level headed in the arena."

"Or she is simply trying to get it out of her system before such behaviour could get her into deep trouble," Nestor offered.

"Who knows..." The two gamemakers shrugged at each other, then let their gaze roam over the other tributes.

"Looks like we have another such case of overconfidence this year," Nestor said and pointed at the girl from District 3 who was just walking over to the trap station.

"I'm not so sure," Decidus replied thoughtfully. "Confident, yes, overly so? I don't know. Besides, she takes the training more serious. She got good comments from the swords trainer yesterday."

"However, you also know how the kids from the Big Alliance react to confident tributes. They either rope them into their alliance to safely kill later or target them early on. And there seems to be no interest in them to pick the girl up as additional ally." Nestor countered.

"In which case we simply have to hope that she makes it out of the Bloodbath alive as only then she'll be a really interesting tribute to watch in the arena."

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	20. Chapter 18 - Training: Fun

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 18: Training – It's all about fun**

 _Beetee Latier, Mentor, D3_

Beetee knew he should accompany Thalia to the sponsors' lounge, as she after a final cup of coffee got ready to charm the Capitolites during lunch, and try to interest someone in sponsoring Tybor as an individual. But seriously, who wanted to sponsor a scrawny fourteen-year-old, who, just this morning, had been so pale with anxiety that Beetee feared even the short elevator ride to the gymnasium would cause the boy to throw up? It was not as if he didn't want to help Tybor. In fact, he even kind of liked the boy, which made it all the harder to face reality – a reality even Tybor knew well enough: He was going to die in a couple of days unless some miracle happened. And Panem was not exactly known for a high density of miracle occurrences.

So if not for Tybor, Beetee knew he should accompany Thalia to just show his support for her. And while Fancy was perhaps a bit overconfident, she was at least the kind of tribute, who might actually attract some sponsors.

But instead Beetee hid in the sanctuary that was the mentors' lounge. Not without a guilty sigh did he allow himself to enjoy another of the pastries along with some more coffee and most importantly: quietude. Right now this lounge was perhaps the most relaxed place in the whole Capitol and he felt that he needed all the calm he could gather if he wanted to transfer at least a bit of this to Tybor tonight and help him get through the upcoming days better.

Lounging in one of the comfortable chairs, he was surprised when soon after the chair next to his was claimed by Seeder, District 11's long-time mentor.

"Don't worry too much," the slightly older woman said.

"Have you taken up mind-reading?" Beetee countered a little annoyed but also a little relieved to have someone to talk about things. He somehow couldn't do this with Thalia. Not this year. Not with her tribute standing perhaps a small chance.

"No need for that," came the smiling reply. "The creases on your forehead are telling enough."

Recalling that District 11 had also one such doomed tribute, Beetee ventured to ask, how they were faring.

"Oh, there are bouts of depression, as is to be expected, but overall I have the feeling that Cory is determined to make the most of his last days on Earth. Which is perhaps not the worst idea," Seeder confided.

"Good for you." Beetee smiled, then sighed again.

Seeder grinned. "As I said before, don't worry too much. From what Cory told me, he is most determined to make a friend in your Tybor. To him, making the most of the time means to share it with a friend. He said it was a friend who pulled him from his strange shocked state after Reaping, so he knows he doesn't want to be without a friend in the arena. And if Cory manages to get to Tybor, well, then you'll have a much more relaxed tribute by tonight."

Beetee could only shake his head in disbelief. After all those years, some tributes still managed to surprise him. He just hoped that Seeder's words came true.

* * *

 _Tybor Rejewski, D3, 14Y_

Tybor was scared. He knew it and he was pretty sure everyone else around him knew that, too. Which meant he was marked as easy prey. Which made him feel even more scared. It was a truly vicious circle. At least he had not thrown up so far and totally disgraced himself. He knew he needed to get a grip on himself but at the same time had no idea how to do this.

The words of the head trainer went past him as if they were white noise and by the time all the other tributes began heading to the various training stations he was still none the wiser.

For a fleeting moment the idea of just doing nothing until the time had come for him to step too early from the launching platform and thereby ending his life prematurely and in a swift manner popped up in his mind. However, he instantly dismissed it. No matter how scared he was, no matter how certain imminent death was as his only future, he did not want to commit suicide. It would mean treating his life with disdain. The President and the Capitol and even the other tributes might do this, but he would not scorn the gift his parents had given to him in such a way – life. The thought of his parents had him finger the metal puzzle, he had slipped into a pocket of his training clothes and he instantly felt a little calmer than before.

No, he would not kill himself. But what about killing others? Weren't their lives also to be considered a gift from their parents? And if so, why should he even attempt to learn how to kill them?

Having reached some kind of decision with this thought, Tybor sat down right where he stood, took the puzzle out of the pockets and focussed on solving it. So far he had resisted the temptation, wanting to save it for the night before the arena, but well, if he was to be in training for almost three days he might as well spend that time with something he enjoyed. Perhaps the puzzle would even last a whole day...

So focussed was he, that at first he didn't notice the other boy who had sat down close by. Consequently he was quite startled when the other spoke.

"Is it any good?" Obviously meaning the puzzle.

Tybor shrugged with his shoulders and looked up. "I like them. My dad gave it to me. He'd give me one every Reaping Day for the festivities afterwards... Guess it'll be my last puzzle."

The other boy nodded solemnly. "I know. I'm one of those doomed to die too young as well. Is the puzzle the reason you are not training?"

Tybor shook his head. "No, but then again, as you said, we are doomed to die soon, so why should I train? To prolong my suffering? I'd rather spend my time doing something I like."

This elicited a grin from the other boy. "I knew it!" he said almost victoriously.

Instinctively Tybor was alert. Was this boy perhaps a secret spy of some alliance, trying to figure out how easy it would be to kill him? Despite knowing his future, Tybor didn't like the thought of being promoted to 'doomed to die first'.

The other, it seemed however, had not noticed his uneasiness, but continued: "I knew you would feel about it the same way I do. If we are to die, we should have as much fun as we can get in our last days. I'm Cory by the way."

"Tybor," Tybor offered.

"I know," was Cory's grinning reply. "I made sure to catch your name during recap. So, have you any plans on how to pass your time once you solved this puzzle?"

Tybor shook his head. "Do you have any plans how to have fun?" he returned the question.

"Aside from finding a friend?" Cory asked. "I hope you don't mind if I consider you my friend? I mean, with the two of us being the same age and already sharing the same thoughts..."

Tybor shrugged. Why not? Others were thinking in terms of alliances, but these were taking the games seriously, hoping against hope to stand a chance at survival. So what if Cory and he were the only realistic ones? Friendship also sounded much better than alliance. "Sure," he muttered.

"Cool," Cory said enthusiastically. "Back to your original question... I don't have much of a plan. What do you do at home with your friends to have fun?"

A dark cloud passed over Tybor's face. "I only had one real close friend, but then he had to drop out of the advanced classes in school in favour of work. But before, we used to sneak into the park and dream of our future." Thoughts of Benvio and of his own future that no longer existed were painful, but Tybor forced himself to go on. If Cory was to be his friend, then he could tell him about Benvio, right? "I charged Benvio to take up his walks again. I even promised him to haunt the park as a ghost."

"A ghost is at least a better choice compared to a zombie," said Cory. "That's what I felt like at my Reaping. Though Krish, my best friend back home, said as zombie I'd at least stand a chance in the games."

"At least till the gamemakers take you out. Can't risk you eating their brains."

With this the ice was truly broken between the two boys, who instead of heading for any training station simply remained sitting where they were and talked about this and that, life in their districts and as far as possible truly became friends.

Only when it was time for lunch did the trainers disturb them.

"Strange how none of them came to urge us to try out a station before," Tybor mused as they gathered the two remaining trays.

Cory shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I for one am glad they did not. But perhaps we should at least give the impression of trying out some things before the gamemakers decide to rig our launching platforms? While I know I'm doomed to die, I'd prefer not to be blown to bits."

"Good point," Tybor agreed. While not strictly suicide, it would be too close to his liking to his earlier fleeting thoughts. "But no weapon stations. I don't think I can kill and I don't want to learn how to do this."

"So we check out the survival stations this afternoon... Now, how to spice things up a bit that it's still fun?" Cory mused.

"Well, we certainly can't just mess things up at those stations as else the gamemakers still might consider taking us out of the games early," Tybor mentioned.

"But..." Here Cory's eyes lit up with anticipation, igniting Tybor's own excitement. "But while we might not want to risk annoying the gamemakers, there is no reason why we shouldn't annoy other tributes. I mean, they will want to kill us anyway, right?"

"Especially the Careers," Tybor interjected.

"So, dare we go after the Careers?" Despite his earlier enthusiasm Cory seemed a bit reluctant at that prospect. But his choice of words woke up Tybor's own teenage mischief.

"I dare you to," he said with a grin. And with these words, a whole new can of fun-worms was opened.

Despite the Careers tending to prefer to intimidate the other tributes, one or two of them were actually staking out the survival stations.

"So, whom do we follow?" Cory asked after lunch. "The girl from District Two or the girl from District Four?"

"Let's begin with District Four," Tybor replied. "She is heading for the more crowded station. We don't want to be too obvious with our mission of annoying them, so we should build it up slowly."

"Good idea," Cory agreed and the two of them headed over to the station which apparently dealt with water bottles.

"Something's definitely up with the water," Cory whispered. "Else there wouldn't be so many people here." There were at least six tributes checking out the bottles.

Tybor was busy watching the other tributes try out the bottles with a piston. Again the mischief entered his eyes. "I dare you to," he whispered to his new friend.

"Okay..."

"I dare you to grab one of those bottles, make a weak attempt and then ask Four to push it down for you."

Cory instantly understood. He nodded. "Puppy eyes included," he sealed the deal.

Snickering, the two made for the piston bottles. If the trainer suspected anything, she didn't show it with more than a roll of her eyes.

"Ugh!" Cory exaggerated as he tried to push down the piston, which while not easy to move was still manageable. "Argh!" He even huffed. One more attempt, all with wrinkles showing his apparent strain, then he stopped. Meanwhile the girl from District 4 had moved down the piston with, if not an effortless, then at least one powerful push.

"Ohhh!" Cory made, all open mouthed in admiration. "Awesome!" Turning his full attention to the girl he held out his own bottle. "Would you please do mine, too?" Including the promised puppy eyes.

The other tribute eyed him as if he was completely nuts, looked over to Tybor, who hastened to mimic Cory's mien, and then stalked away with a thunder clouded face.

As soon as she was out of earshot, the two boys collapsed with laughter while Cory placed the bottle on the counter and then pressed down the piston all on his own.

The trainer simply shook her head. It was not her position to say anything about a tribute's attitude, and if asked, she could truthfully say that the two boys now at least knew about the water bottles.

True to their plan, the two boys then switched to joining the girl from District 2 at the shelter making station. The material was not much, but when Tybor saw the figures and charts on the wall of the station, his spatial sense kicked in and he wanted to try it out. Cory, being used to working with plants, had a better time twining the material together, but their joint effort soon showed two loose, overlapping nets.

"Now all we need is something to prop this up to make it a lean-to like the one over there on the picture," Tybor pointed.

"And some bedding," Cory added.

Looking at each other, both said in unison: "I dare you to."

"Okay, you first," said Tybor. After all, he had cast the dare at the water bottle station.

"I dare you to," Cory whispered, "go over to the spear station and snatch two of them right from under the nose of the boy from District One."

Tybor gulped, but nodded. It made sense. The spears would be ideal to prop up their make-shift tent. "And I dare you to ask the girl from District Two for her bedding, claiming it would make the shelter perfect."

Cory pondered this for a moment. "I think we can do better than that. Snatching the spears will surely distract her. After all, we are taking the weapons from her ally, even if it is only training weapons. So while she is distracted, I'll simply grab her bedding, so that when you come back with the spears, we prop up the nets and lie down on the bedding as innocent as rain."

From the way Tybor's face lit up, it was obvious that he liked the plan very much. With a determination he had not dreamed of ever feeling again earlier this day, he marched over to the spear throwing range. He politely waited till the two tributes were finished throwing before sprinting over to the target the boy from District 1 had used and swiftly pulled out two of the five spears. He tried not to take notice of where the Career had hit the target, but he was pretty sure that all those hits had been deadly – either of the fast or the slow variety, but deadly nonetheless.

"Hey!" The Career shouted at him. "What do you think you are doing?"

Well, if ever there was a signal that screamed 'run', this certainly was. Tybor gave a quick bow in the direction of the startled tribute and then ran helter-skelter back to the shelter station.

Cory was already waiting for him. Snatching one of the spears he tucked up one corner, while Tybor followed suit and before anyone could stop them, the two fell down on the pilfered bedding. "Ah, now that's what I call a good shelter," Cory sighed and Tybor simply smiled, still a bit out of breath from the spear theft.

Shadows suddenly loomed over them. Blinking at them innocently – or as innocently as they managed – they noticed that they had achieved to garner the attention of no less than three Careers, as the boy from District 2 appeared to have joined his allies.

"What?" Tybor managed to inquire with more bravado than he really felt. "Ask the trainer – this is a good shelter!"

One of the other boys growled. "Just wait until we are in the arena and then we'll show you what we think of such as you!"

"Yep, I'm sure you will," Cory chimed in. "As I'm sure you would have shown us anyway. If only to make it two less tributes for you to kill before you can battle out victory amongst yourselves."

While the girl from District 2 and her companion from District 1 simply nodded at this bland assessment, the boy from District 2 seemed suddenly withdrawn. But all three decided not to bother with the two apparently lunatic boys any longer and walked away to other stations.

Likewise, the trainer again only made note that the boys now knew about shelters and showed an aptitude for improvisation.

All in all the day passed much pleasanter than Tybor had imagined that morning. The facts had not changed much, but the circumstances had changed a tiny bit. Just enough that he no longer felt crushed down by the sheer weight of his fate. Consequently he was much more relaxed around dinner, until Fancy started making hints regarding her plans for interview and sponsors.

"Don't let her bother you," Beetee tried to assure him as they went away from the dining table with their desserts. "Though if you have any ideas you'd like me to pass on regarding your interview, I'm all ear."

"Aside from the request of not wanting to wear heals?" Tybor asked with a grin.

Beetee nodded.

Tybor contemplated this for a moment. The idea of trying to imitate the Careers at the interviews and thereby annoy them even further was enticing, but he doubted the audience would really get it. And it would only be fun if the audience could share their joke. So he simply shrugged. "Doesn't matter much what I wear. I mean, for others like Fancy the interview might be one more chance to get the attention of potential sponsors, but I'm realistic enough to know that nobody would sponsor a fourteen year old unless we are talking of Finnick Odair. So there'll be a big fat zero on my sponsor account."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Beetee countered. "Some tributes get sponsors because people think they might have a chance at winning. Others evoke pity so people want to help them. Again others get sponsored as part of company policies. I wouldn't be surprised if some companies who have close relations to our district have some kind of policy to give at least a bit of money for the tributes."

"That might be," Tybor conceded, "but I don't work for any of the factories."

"Neither does Fancy, which will give Thalia and me a bit of leeway at how we spend the general sponsor money."

"Still, it would be wiser to spend it on Fancy. She stands perhaps a chance."

"Leave this to us, Tybor. Trust us. Not only have we as mentors had to live through our own games, we have also had to learn about when to send and what to send as sponsor gifts. Let's say a tribute was afraid of the dark and a small glow-in-the-dark object would be among the gifts we could send and it would be quite cheap. It might at first glance seem like a waste of money, money the same tribute might later need for a bottle of water or food or medicine," Beetee said. "But who is to tell us that this tribute would survive till the point where water or food would be the gift in question? Being afraid of the darkness might cause that tribute to forsake caution and start a fire to have a little light, thereby alerting other tributes of their whereabouts, ultimately leading to their death. Then they'll never need that water. So if we send you gifts, know that we really want you to have them, no matter how Fancy might be doing at that moment."

Tybor swallowed hard. He had never thought of how things would be for the mentors. And he knew that he was really lucky with Beetee and Thalia caring for them. It was strangely comforting. Knowing that he wouldn't be alone. Not with Cory. Not with Beetee and Thalia watching over him. Even if it meant watching him die. And he was suddenly grateful. Not only to them, but also to the unknown sponsors who made it possible to send comfort if needed and Tybor decided then and there that if he had the opportunity, he would mention his gratitude in his interview.

* * *

 _Cory Hershel, D11, 14Y_

Training with Tybor was actually a lot of fun. After he had overcome the initial gloom, he had been exactly what Cory had hoped to find in the other boy: A fun-loving friend, full of mischief. The second day of training was more of the same kind of fun they had experienced the first day. They had followed the girls from District 2 and District 1 to a station of edible insects and when they witnessed firsthand the disgust of the girl from District 1 they wished that they had actual specimen instead of pictures, with which to play the schoolyard prank of old on her. Instead they decided in a split second to follow her as she stalked away to practice throwing light spears in order to catch fish. After all, they had already annoyed the girl from District 2, no need for a repeat here.

Tybor hesitated. "You know that I don't want to learn how to kill anyone..."

"You have heard the girl," Cory replied with a grin, "these are for catching fish and not killing tributes." Knowing he was within earshot of the girl in question, he continued: "Besides, what tribute would kill another with so insignificant a weapon as this? I expect them to lift at least a full tree log and swing it like a club to knock me into next life. Not this toothpick like weapon."

The girl shot them a dark look, but decided that two scrawny fourteen-year-olds were beneath her further notice. Applying to the trainer manning the station for a set of spears, she soon put a half dozen spears into a holder at the throwing line and took aim with the first one.

"I've got an idea!" Tybor whispered that moment, grabbed the remaining spears and sprinted over to the knot-tying station.

"My spears!" The girl from District 1 exclaimed as her first spear missed the target by a mile.

Cory followed instinctively, curious to see what Tybor had in mind.

Taking a length of thin rope which lay on the table of that station, Tybor spread out the spears. Turning to Cory, he said: "See, if we connect them here and here and then use another rope, we would have a simple pulley. Then we might be the ones able to lift that log you mentioned just a minute ago."

Impressed, Cory helped Tybor with the knots, much to the amusement of the trainer. "You know, if we found suitable cover, we could create something like a drawbridge to keep the Careers out," he told his friend. "Or we could create something akin to a swinging battering ram. Now that would be a picture if we came knocking at their Cornucopia Fort..."

Tybor nodded and grinned. "So many possibilities..."

Since the girl from District 1 had been placated by the spear trainer with a new set of light spears, the two of them actually stayed at the knot tying station and allowed the trainer to show them some proper knots. They then checked out the fire making station, simply because it was next to the knot tying station and they didn't fancy annoying the one remaining Career they had not yet got – they counted the boy from District 2 among their victims of the shelter prank –, as the boy from District 4 was currently at the water bottle station and they had already used that station to annoy a tribute.

At lunch the boy from District 7 approached them. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Cory and Tybor shrugged. They had noticed that the boy seemed to watch them, but then he seemed to watch all of the tributes, occasionally approaching one, exchanging a few words only to then walk off again. Maybe it was his way to sound out other tributes and their weaknesses, but seriously, he was even younger than them, so if they didn't stand a chance, why should he bother finding out others' weaknesses?

"Thanks. I'm Jace. I liked what you did with the Careers," he instantly began to monopolize the conversation. "Really, it was about time that someone showed them not to discount us immediately just because of our age. You really got to them."

The two of them raised their eyebrows. The way Jace sounded, he seemed to believe, that they wanted to impress the Careers instead of annoy them.

"I think we should show them next that we also know about weapons," Jace continued, oblivious to the other two boys' reaction.

"Sorry, no weapons for me," Tybor interjected and Cory nodded. While he knew how to handle a machete, he was totally okay with never having to use it in defence or to take another one's life should he happen to get his hands on one. Even if he intended to show those skills to the gamemakers in his private session.

"You can't be serious!" Jace protested. "If we were to show them our skills there, they might actually..."

"What? Wet themselves by laughing too hard?" Cory asked and shook his head.

"This actually might be worth my trying out weapons," Tybor pondered the idea with a grin.

"Why can't you take this a bit more serious?" Jace exclaimed a bit exasperated. "If they see my skills with axe and hatchet..."

"...they'll either take you out first with a well thrown knife or spear, or clobber you to death with a sword or mace just to make sure you don't get your beloved wood-cutter weapons or they'll simply burn them or render them unusable in some other way," Cory offered the younger boy a splash of reality.

With this Jace left them with a huff. Tybor grinned. "Guess we have it in us to not only annoy real Careers but also wannabe Careers like this Jace."

At this the two of them spontaneously high-fived.

That afternoon they eventually got the boy from District 4. Apparently he had gotten tired of the boy tribute from District 12 always occupying the obstacle course and decided to scare him off by showing off his own skills there. Even if not as good there as the boy from District 12, who had spent a lot of time becoming familiar with that particular set-up, the fact alone that the Career might deem the obstacle course worth his notice meant that he was sure of scaring the living daylight out of anyone among the tributes who considered themselves comparatively good at that station.

Of course Cory and Tybor joined them.

The course was challenging to the two boys as neither of them was used to anything remotely familiar back home aside from sports class in school. And once the colour powdered balls entered the fray they really looked like clowns. Looking over to the boy from District 4 they saw that he sported considerably less coloured spots.

"Hm...," Tybor mused, "looks like the only way to get safely through that course is being carried through it piggy-back style by him."

Cory looked at him with raised eyebrows and then said: "I dare you to!"

Tybor's eyes widened comically, only now realizing that he had walked right into his own trap.

"Well," Cory gestured, "you are the smaller one of us anyway..."

Tybor gulped, but then nodded. The dares had after all been his idea in the beginning.

"Ready?" The trainer asked the boy from District 4 as he got into starting stance once more.

"Hey, wait for me!" Tybor shouted and as the boy actually hesitated for a moment, he jumped on the broad back of the other tribute. "Ready!" Tybor then announced at the trainer, who was as flabbergasted as the boy from District 4.

"What the he... Get off!" The huge tribute screamed and tried to shake Tybor off.

"Whoa, watch out, this was pretty close to the punching bags," Tybor cautioned. "You wouldn't want to hurt another tribute, while still in training."

But here another trainer from the obstacle course interfered. "Three, get off Four. No attacking other tributes inside the gymnasium. Keep that for the arena."

"Oh, but he wasn't attacking the other tribute," Cory explained politely. "We just figured that being carried through the course by him would keep us safer from the balls than if we attempted it on our own."

The trainer rolled his eyes, but still made sure that Tybor let go of the other boy.

By the time the day wound down, all Careers were shooting the two of them dirty looks as they filed out of the gymnasium while more than one trainer was glad that training was almost at an end.

When Cory entered the suite of District 11, Seeder was already waiting for him.

"Did you have a good day?"

Cory couldn't help but grin. He nodded.

"Somehow I already guessed as much," his mentor said with a smile. "You got quite a few comments in the lounge today."

This piqued Cory's curiosity. "Other mentors commented on us?"

Seeder nodded. "Mostly the ones from Districts One and Two. Said your behaviour was quite disruptive. Alopex even mentioned something about filing a complaint with the trainers." Here she looked at the boy inquiringly.

Cory only smirked. "Well, either he didn't file the complaint or the trainers decided to not act upon it. Because none of the trainers today said anything out of the ordinary to us. But really, if our behaviour was so disruptive as to warrant a rebuke from the trainers, then surely they'd have to rebuke the Careers as well. After all, their own showing off of weapon skills is quite disruptive for any other tribute who might want to learn any weapon. This afternoon the boy from District Four even saw fit to spoil the boy from District Twelve's pleasure at the obstacle course."

"And you saw fit to spoil District Four's fun?" Seeder guessed.

"Do you really want to know and spoil the surprise of being accosted by his mentor tomorrow?" Cory returned.

"Brat!" Seeder said fondly and he simply smirked. "Now go and get showered. No need to have you all sweaty at the dinner table."

Dinner was their usual cordial affair. That was till dessert was served. As Cory eyed the iced chocolate confection, he felt tears prick in his eyes. Hastily excusing himself, he headed for his room, not wanting anyone to see him cry. He might be as good as dead, he might be a hopeless case, but he wouldn't add the title of cry-baby to this collection.

A knock on his door almost had him call the person off, but when the one outside announced himself as Chaff, Cory hesitated. Their lone male victor was rather quiet, leaving most of the job of comforting and encouraging the tributes to Seeder. So for him to have now come to Cory's door to check on him was something Cory knew he shouldn't dismiss.

"Come in," he croaked out.

"Your parents?" Chaff simply asked.

Cory eyed him with surprise. "How... how would you know?"

"I noticed your reaction on the train when we had breakfast. At first you seemed excited, but a few seconds later you were all sad and merely toyed with your food. It's not a reaction we usually get from our tributes."

Cory could easily remember that breakfast. Dinner had already been amazing by the sheer amount of food served, but to have the same abundance displayed again the next morning had been almost overwhelming. And then there was the hot chocolate. Like he had told his parents at the Justice Building, he finally got to taste the very thing produced of what they grew in the greenhouses. Yet as soon as he had tasted it, the rich sweetness in his mouth turned bitter. Oh, it did taste quite good. But it reminded him that because of his zombie-like state he had not been able to bid his parents a proper farewell. And at that moment he would have traded all the rich food for just one more heartfelt hug from his mother. But Cory could also understand that usually tributes from their district were too starved to let the opportunity of food pass the way he had at that meal to make his reaction stand out all the more.

"So you looked up my background and concluded that chocolate will remind me of my family?" Cory guessed.

Chaff nodded. "I wish we had any influence on the menu to prevent them from serving chocolate items at dinner, but they actually serve the same dinner on all floors, so only medical allergies would make them change the menu of a district. But if you really wanted to avoid it, you could always stay in your rooms for dinner and order snacks from the available list. Though Seeder and I would prefer that you have dinner with us. Experience taught us that being alone while in the Capitol is not a good state for our tributes – it only invites dark and depressing thoughts."

Cory gave him a sad smile. "Thanks for noticing... and for mentioning the alternative." He sniffled softly. "I guess it wouldn't this bad if I had had a proper goodbye from my parents."

"Didn't they come to see you?" Chaff sounded surprised.

"Oh no, they were there alright. But I was not. It was like I had completely zoned out and had left in my stead a blabbering idiot who was only looking forward to finally tasting chocolate." It really ate at him that he had been such a messed-up nutcase. As such he had no idea what they might be thinking of him right now. Were they scared? Were they hoping that he was alright? That he was thinking of him? Was his mother sitting in his bedroom right now, the remnants of the skirt in hands, silently crying? He missed them so much.

Before he knew it, he had launched himself at Chaff and began to cry hard. With an awkward one-armed hug, the mentor tried to comfort him as best as he could, silently listening to Cory as he unburdened himself. "And now I'm going to die and I'll never get the chance to tell them how much I love them," Cory sobbed hoarsely.

At this, Chaff broke his silence. "Now, you'll never know that."

Cory extracted himself from the mentor's arm and brushed the tears from his eyes. "Nice of you to say, but we all know that you are not talking to the next victor here."

Chaff eyed him with a sad smile. "You are perhaps right there, though we could always hope for a miracle. But even if miracles fail you, there are two of us who will in any case return to the district. And both Seeder and I would be most willing to carry a letter from you to hand to your parents. It might not be the same as telling them face to face and will not get you your mother's embrace, but they will know what you feel."

Hope gleamed in Cory's eyes at the mentor's words. "Really? I mean, I could really write them a letter?" He looked around his bedroom, searching for writing material.

Chaff nodded. "If you want, I can request one of the avoxes to bring you a stationary."

Cory spent the rest of that evening and half of the night composing the longest letter he had ever written. Not just because it was also the first and only letter he ever wrote, but because he wanted his parents to know all that he remembered of them. He wanted to share the memories with them so that they could remember them with him, even when he was gone. Of how he had once eaten secretly the overripe fruit his mother had put away for the special punch they served in the village on the evening of Reaping Day and had gotten horribly sick, much to the amusement of his parents. Of how much he had admired the very first hand-me-down shirt he had gotten from his father that his mother had only to shorten by two hands and not cut apart and remake it like she had done before. He had felt so grown up with the shirt and closer than ever to his father. The fond looks his parents had shared with each other when his father had presented the mother with a pretty pendant he had been saving for a whole year on the occasion of their last anniversary. The fond looks they had cast his way when he had presented his mother with a length of shiny blue ribbon on which to wear the pendant. This and what felt like a thousand more details he put on paper, so that they would know how much he loved them.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Septimus was bored. It was all clash and clang to him. Why was it always the same? The arena might vary, but training almost never did. Even the food seemed to be the same. Or it might be that after all those years it simply tasted all the same to him, that simply the amount of coffee he had consumed over the years had dulled his taste buds to the point where he no longer could make out a difference between foie gras and sawdust.

Septimus might not be the head gamemaker, but he was the senior gamemaker and as such he felt he had seen it all. Including the rather lustful looks his colleague Cassandra next to him shot the male tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4.

"Oh, please, Cassandra, show a little more restraint. I will never understand what makes you almost drool over these mindless marionettes," he moaned, then hastened to add: "And don't you dare sigh and tell me how handsome they are – or any thesaurus variation of the same sentiment."

"Septimus, my friend, you are simply no fun," the woman in question answered. "What is wrong with admiring a strapping young man in his prime? It's about all I can do, since even if one of this year's crop wins, my salary will never allow me to make a bid for an evening in that young man's company."

Septimus shook his head. As gamemakers they were making fair money, so if Cassandra really wanted an evening in the company of a victor, all she'd have to do was save up for it – and she wouldn't even face any real hardships doing so. But then again, Cassandra had a few rather expensive hobbies. Fashion for one, luckily only clothes wise, but about three quarters of the Capitol seemed to be addicted to that particular vice. The other was keeping a serval for feline company. Having worked together with her for almost ten years, Septimus also knew that if given the choice, Cassandra would always pick the serval over the victor. 'The serval will stay with me for the whole time, a victor is only mine for one night', she'd say. And it was this dash of common sense, reason, reality intruding or whatever one wanted to call it, which made Septimus rather like his colleague – compared to the other gamemakers and despite her unfortunate attraction towards boring tributes.

Just then there was a disturbance at the spear throwing range and as Septimus looked down, he caught sight of a young boy sprinting away with two spears he had obviously snatched from under the eyes of the tribute from District 1. Following the boy's retreat, Septimus soon spied his partner in mischief and couldn't suppress a grin. Now, this was entertainment!

When he pointed it out to his colleague, Cassandra simply sighed: "Boys... always the same..."

Septimus smirked. "Ah, but if it makes them learn some skills..."

"Blatant behaviour and being caught doesn't really count as skills," Cassandra said a bit miffed.

Her colleague's grin only broadened. "I doubt the two of them would behave the same obvious way in the arena. But still, courage also counts, as you know."

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	21. Chapter 19 - Training: Alliances

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 19: Training – It's all about alliances**

 _Seeder Torrent, Mentor, D11_

Sponsors were a peculiar species even among the Capitolites, Seeder thought. Having been a mentor for so long, she had encountered all kinds of them. There were those who'd simply call the hotline and announce the amount they wanted to donate to the cause, to be charged by means of their telephone bill. This had been the case with Cory this year, and while it was not as much as Seeder would need to make a real difference for the boy, it was more than she had had hoped for. At least not without some miracle training score to get her more sponsors. A little research had shown her the origin of the money and she couldn't help but smirk at the wisdom the Whittakers had shown in choosing to sponsor through the hotline. While it would look good for them to see their name given as sponsors on the official pages, the amount was too small to warrant a press-photo witnessing a sponsor-deal being sealed. In fact, were it to become known how little they had actually donated, they would be the laughing stock among their fellow sponsors. But in terms of understated public relations... yes, the hotline had been the better choice. It also kept Seeder from having to thank them personally and fawning over them, like other sponsors with higher contributions not unjustly expected. For some Capitolites, the wizened mentor suspected, the fawning was the reason they sponsored at all. Consequently they were not so much focussed on which tribute to back up but which mentor would give them the most attention they so craved. Seeder knew, she should perhaps try and get one of them to sponsor Mary, but today, she didn't feel up to it. Besides, she didn't know enough of the girl to have an idea what aspects to emphasize in her advertisement campaign. After all, Seeder was no longer the young attractive victor who was all the advertisement needed for a sponsor to be interested in her flattering. And then there were those who simply liked to sponsor as kind of personal bet to see if they picked the victor. Again, Seeder might have a chance with them regarding Mary, but again there was the advertisement problem.

Seeder sighed. If only Mary was more talkative and not always keeping things so close to her heart. One would expect that the girl would at the least talk constantly about how much she missed her twin, how much she missed her boyfriend. Even ranting how unfair this Reaping was would have been preferable to the guarded silence the girl shrouded herself in.

As she sipped her coffee, Seeder scanned the room. About half the mentors were here. All of the Career ones. Some were shooting Seeder annoyed glances, most particularly the ones from District 1. Seeder knew it was about what Cory and his friend had done the day before and couldn't help smirking. Now that boy was something different.

Someone slid into the seat next to hers. Glancing sideways Seeder saw her old friend Lyme. Having been victors of consecutive games, they had been thrown into company together more often than either cared for at first, but time taught them that in the end, districts didn't matter half as much as the tributes thought, once you were victors.

"Have you come to complain about my boy?" Seeder asked with a grin.

"Nah, I leave this to the inexperienced. I've come to gloat!" Lyme retorted.

"Gloat? Now, what would a Career mentor have to gloat about?" Mild sarcasm crept into Seeder's voice. "Another brute likely to feature the high-gloss magazines to make the poor Capitolites drool over?"

Lyme laughed. As much as it displeased her to hear the regular tribute of her district being described this way, it was an apt description. "No." Her eyes danced with merriment. "For once I found myself a tribute who has actual survival skills!"

"Oh no!" Seeder returned with mock indignation. "How dare you? You know that we poorer mentors only live for the moment when you rich ones are finally forced to spend the money on something simple like food."

"Ah, and you well know how much we always envy you at that point of the games, since all your tributes always know which plants to eat and which to avoid."

The two shared a companionable laugh.

"Yeah, well, that's at least something I can always be sure about with my tributes. The girl more so this year than the boy, as she has moved around the district following the crops and has seen more of the vegetation than the boy, who stayed at one plantation."

"That skill alone should get her some decent ally should she be so inclined. Plus working with different crops means strength and endurance, while moving around means adaptability. Coupled with her age, I can see her being approached by at least one or two of the older ones. Maybe even my lot," Lyme mused. "Add to this her parade outfit and I'm surprised that there are not at least a few old lechers trying a hand at sponsoring her, if only for the later rewards."

"I don't think Mary is up for alliances. For reasons unknown to me she seems to prefer to keep to herself," Seeder said, though she kept the mention of the lechers in mind. After all, it wouldn't hurt to try. The Capitol would sell the girl anyway, should she win, so Seeder reasoned that it was only right to at least get something out of it beforehand.

"I know what you mean", Lyme nodded. "Even though Abelia is part of an alliance, she might as well be not..."

* * *

 _Madeline 'Mary' Parker, D11, 18Y_

Maddy had been silent the whole of the train ride, afraid that a single word might reveal the swap. Unfortunately this behaviour had also given her ample time to brood over her situation. And she didn't really like it. Brooding didn't suit her personality and looming death didn't suit her plans for any future she might have dreamed of having. Yes, she had saved her sister's life and that of her unborn niece or nephew. She didn't regret the decision. But it was not easy to accept that she was going to die, same as the boy who rode the train with her.

She also couldn't help seeing the speculative glances their mentors cast in her direction. While sporting the regular slim look of all those, who had enough food to prevent starvation but not enough to make her really gain weight, the work with the crops had given her a nice amount of wiry muscles. Add to it the experience which came with being among the oldest possible tributes; it was plain to see that Chaff and Seeder thought she might at least stand a chance. And under different circumstances, she might have shared their hope. But she could not return. Winning would raise too many questions, cause too many problems. If she won, she would have to be patched up in some way by the Capitol's doctors, as so far not a single victor had escaped the arena unscathed. These doctors would know that she was not pregnant. Yet, when the time came for Mary to give birth, the records would also include her finger prints for unmistakable identification of the mother, and then things simply would not add up. Missing scars, the math of pregnancy, the whole of their medical histories would uncover the swap. And Maddy didn't dare to imagine what repercussions the government would bring down on them for playing them the fool in such a way. So she couldn't really return. She couldn't really try and win. But not trying? That was not an option either.

While she had slowly come to understand that neither Seeder nor Chaff knew Mary and her well enough to tell them apart – it was more like they didn't know them at all – and Maddy was therefore safe enough with them to be herself so as to allow her to join their conversation by the time they reached the station at the Capitol, she realized that for most of Panem Mary had too much at stake not to make a go for victory. There was her twin sister. There was her fiancé. So Mary would definitely try. And while a swift death in the bloodbath under the guise of trying to get decent equipment to stand a good chance might be an acceptable method in terms of concealed suicide for most tributes if they wanted to end their lives early, it was no option for Maddy. Simply because back home there were also enough people, who while not able to tell them apart, would know them well enough to know that neither of them would ever make a run for the equipment in the cornucopia. Every year after The Reaping, the kids in the wanderers' camps would gather in the evening and speculate among themselves what kind of strategies the various tributes of that year would go for. And they would discuss how they themselves would act in this situation. Never once had Mary or she voiced the idea of trying to get something from the Cornucopia. It had always been snatch what was close by and then run and rely on their knowledge of the vegetation. So dying early in the bloodbath was not option if she wanted to make this ruse work.

Therefore she had to try, survive for some time, put up a fight, only to ultimately loose. The sheer enormity of that plan was weighing her down and more than once she wished she had someone she could confide in. But her mentors were out of question. They had to return to the district and to have them know would put Mary in danger again. Cory, though he would not return home alive, was not an option either has he might accidentally blab something to their mentors.

As she watched the Careers on their first day of training group together while they listened to the instructions of the head trainer, Maddy felt something akin to jealousy fill her. They entered here, knowing that at least for a few days longer there was something of a support network waiting for them. How would it feel to be part of that?

But no, she scolded herself, even if the Careers invited her to join, there always came the point things broke apart and then she'd be the first to be fed to the wolves. Better to be on her own from the beginning.

When the trainer released them, she headed to the first aid station, hoping to learn some tricks on how to treat herself should she have the misfortune to be wounded while fleeing from the bloodbath.

"I would strongly advise you against using the clothing you are given at the beginning of the games for bandages," the trainer said. "While it is material you'll have readily available, the clothes are usually designed specifically for the arena environment. So in hot environs, you'll be sure to be given material with cooling properties and destroying them would put you at danger from the arena itself."

Madeline nodded. It made sense. Of course should she have to decide between using her clothes and dying from a wound, it would be an easy decision. But at the same time, she could opt to use the article of clothing in question in whole instead of ripping it apart. It might allow her to wear it again later, should she get the chance to dress the wound with something more appropriate. Voicing this thought, she then asked the trainer: "Which of the clothing we are given is usually best for which type of wound? I guess we are given some underwear, socks, a shirt, trousers, and a jacket. At least that's what I've seen in most of the past games."

The trainer nodded approvingly. They always liked it when tributes were observant. "You are often also given a belt. Never discount that one. For example, for a cold arena you'd be given warmer jackets which might not look like good bandage material because you can't tie it tight enough. Add the belt and it will work very well." He then proceeded to show Madeline how to fashion bandages for various parts of a human's body with trousers, shirts and even socks. "Never forget about the socks," he said teasingly. "Rolled up they make great material to soak up blood and to press on a wound. They work also great for wounds on the hand as the elastic will help to keep the bandage in place. And they will allow you to pad splints."

"Socks and belt," Madeline nodded understandingly. "They'll be my most treasured parts of the gear," she even managed to tease him back a bit. It was only now that she realized how much she craved the human contact even this simple conversation was granting her. He was also a safe option for her, as he was not interested in getting to know her, only to teach her. It minimized the danger of accidentally saying the wrong thing. And yet she decided right then and there to at least join the harmless dinner conversation in the suite tonight.

"One bit of advice," the trainer said, sensing that this tribute's attitude allowed for the mention of it. "Same as you can elect to keep another tribute's weapon and provisions should you come out on top at a fight, you are allowed to remove his clothing for your own use. Though the gamemakers, the audience and not the least the poor tribute's parents would prefer it that you not strip him naked. The hovercrafts will only pick up the dead when they are abandoned."

Madeline instantly got the idea. "Extra socks, an extra belt. Maybe an extra jacket or shirt..." It sounded gruesome to rob a dead of their clothes, but they no longer needed them then, and to her it might mean the difference between surviving another day or not, of ultimately pulling off a convincing performance.

Lunch brought another bout of jealousy for her. All around her, people were forming groups, with barely one eating alone. Once more she wondered how it would feel to be free to seek out an ally. It seemed so natural to do so... But an ally would want to get to know her and one accidental slip of tongue was all it needed.

Still she couldn't help and glance around, taking in who was sitting with whom, trying to guess if theirs was a true alliance or a backstabbing one. Her eyes were arrested by the sight of the boy from District 6. He had already caught her attention at the replay of The Reaping and again at the parade, standing as tall and proud as any Career tribute and looking just as strong. Perhaps not as hulking as the boys from District 1 or District 2, but strong enough. Plus there was something in his eyes which spoke of a maturity the boys from the Career districts all lacked.

Now he was sitting with the boy from District 10 in earnest discussion and, well, it looked far more convincing than all the showing off the Careers presented.

Quickly, so as not to attract their attention, Madeline let her eyes move on. The sight of the two tributes from District 9 eating together was sweet. The simple boy worrying for his sickly companion, who in turn was trying to make things understandable for the retarded mind of the boy and encouraging him as well as she could was not a picture once expected to see here. Maddy doubted these two would stick together in the arena, but it was uplifting to see that not even death could chase off compassion.

Nor could it chase off love, Maddy realized as her gaze fell on the boy from District 8 and the girl from District 12. While their faces bespoke only of simple shared conversation, their body language told a different story. Madeline had witnessed it often enough, not in the least with her own twin, that attraction was never voiced by spoken language, but by the incline of the head, how the bodies seemed to lean into each other, seeking nearness before their owners became consciously aware of it. It was bittersweet to watch, knowing that there was no future together for them, yet Maddy could not help but feel a bit of envy. At least they had felt love before they died. So unlike her...

Unconsciously her eyes wandered back to the boy from District 6 and when she became aware of what she was doing, she couldn't help a soft laugh escaping her throat. Yes, the body knew before the mind...

As such, she was not surprised to feel her heart skip a beat when he joined her after lunch at the spear range. She had decided to see if she still knew how to throw the light spear as she had done as child. It was one of the queer facts about District 11. Live in this district was dictated by the crops and the weather, not the clock. As such, while the permanent settlements might have small schools, the wanderers' kids never attended them. They would have their lessons in the evening. And as long as they passed their exams, nobody interfered with this set-up. But as one had to be officially at least twelve years old to be employed as crop worker, this left the question to be answered what to do with the young kids. They might of course have joined the settlement kids in their schools, but they rarely did. Instead they accompanied their parents and older siblings... and were tasked to keep the birds away. Scarecrows they were called. And as in olden days scarecrows had been stuffed straw dolls on sticks, a scarecrow surely couldn't be an official employee, right? Also, as there were no laws against equipping a scarecrow with a light spear or slingshot to chase the birds off more effectively... Of course the managers had made sure that every light spear and ever slingshot had been returned at night, but most young wanderers knew how to handle one or the other. For Mary and her it had been the spear.

At first her aim was rather off as her body had changed quite a bit since those days, but soon enough her muscles remembered the motion and as she learned to adjust her throws according to how her centre of body had changed, she began hitting the target again.

"Keep it up and the Careers will want you," he suddenly said from beside her as the last of her spears of the set hit the target not too far from the centre. "You might already be attracting their attention."

Madeline shivered lightly at the sound of his voice. To her it matched his physical appearance perfectly. Damn. Disguising the attraction she felt as derision for the Careers, she answered: "Good gracious, just what I had been hoping for!"

He grinned, obviously having expected such an answer. But then again, only the desperate would accept an invitation from the Careers. Or those with a secret and devious plan. "What if I told you that you also attracted the attention of another budding alliance?" He continued when Maddy had returned with her spears.

She eyed him with surprise and suspicion. One part of her – the body part, she knew – wanted her to at least consider the invitation, if it was such, whereas the other part reminded her that alliance meant danger of being found out.

"I'm Griffin," he introduced himself.

"Ma... Mary," Maddy replied, stumbling over the name. It was just such an instinctive thing to use her own name... One more reason to decline any offer of alliance.

"You see, I have this theory that the Careers only win so often because they are usually among the oldest and therefore most experienced tributes. Well, you could also say trained, but experience of life is also training not to be discounted. So, what if they found themselves pitched against an alliance of equally old and experienced tributes?" Griffin explained.

"A sound theory," Maddy conceded.

"And...?" Griffin prodded. "Will you join us? So far it's only Maarck and me forming that alliance, but if you joined we would already be three and I intend to seek out the girl from District Seven also." Looking around he located both tributes in question, his ally and the girl to be approached at the same station. "Ah, looks as if I needn't seek her out, as Maarck is already speaking to her. Maarck will also check out if it makes sense to ask the girl from District Three. Then we'd almost be as strong as the Career alliance."

It sounded tempting. And the way he looked at her... Madeline sighed inwardly. She hated to disappoint him. "Don't tell me you are going to make a dash for the Cornucopia like them?" she hedged.

"Of course not," he scoffed. "We don't have to rely on the weapons and fancy equipment found there. We were not trained under the guise of sports classes and such; we were trained by life itself. We will find our weapons and provisions everywhere in the arena."

"You know that for all our life training there's no guarantee your alliance will make it out of the bloodbath alive? But that only then your theory will be put to a real test?"

He nodded grimly.

Madeline pondered the situation for a moment longer, feeling the temptation growing by the second. "Tell you what: If you are still interested in this, repeat your offer to me on the third day in the arena."

"And how do you suggest I get to repeat the offer to you?" He was obviously stunned by her reply.

"Well, currently we know of only one fixed feature of the arena, which is the Cornucopia. We also know that while they tend to return to its safety at night or their closeby base camp, the Careers will most likely be out hunting other tributes at noon, with only one of them staying behind to watch their stash. We should be able to approach from behind and signal each other without the guard noticing..." And at that moment Maddy knew that she would be there, should she then be still alive. She looked at Griffin inquiringly, almost pleading him to accept her suggestion.

"Not quite what I had in mind," he said after a long minute.

"Look at it this way: By having the alliance swell to true size only on Day Three you will know for sure that I'm a survivor and you'll have fooled the Careers. They'll never expect this."

He nodded slowly. "Your idea is not without merit..."

"Day Three then." With this, Madeline resumed her spear training.

That night, she cried herself to sleep. She had so much wanted to be free to take him up on his offer and join his alliance right then and there and not come up with some lame compromise, not knowing if it would ever come to fruition. To see if she stood at least the chance to experience that tiny bit of happiness of loving and being loved if only for a day. For she sensed that what she felt might well be love if only she gave it a chance. And she wondered if this was the reason so few of the mentors appeared to have family... because they found love in the most unlikely of places in Panem, only to have it snatched from them again. How many of them had lost a loved one in the arena?

* * *

 _Abelia Shale, D2, 18Y_

Predictable. Her allies were all so predictable. The head trainer had barely ceased speaking when they were already heading for the weapon stations to scare the other tributes into submission. What a waste! The weapons were always the same, for every arena, the only difference being introduced by a tribute favouring a rarer weapon. What varied was the arena. And the only stations which told you anything about what to expect from that quarter were the survival stations. It was the one advantage the outer districts usually had over them, as their tributes tended to check out the survival stations first. Well, at least if the tributes knew how to process the information revealed by the stations they'd have that advantage... But by not checking out those stations, the tributes of their traditional alliance tended to constantly give away that advantage. To Abelia it was the same as handing over a knife to an outer district tribute in peace instead of throwing it at them to kill them in the bloodbath. But not this year. This year, they would do better.

No, she corrected herself, as she headed for the survival station closest to the gathering point and heard her allies shout after her with barely disguised indignation. Not they, _she_ would do better. If they didn't want to learn, who was she to tell them everything?

Soon enough though she realized that there were some things she had to share with them. She was after all part of their alliance and therefore had to pull her weight to make the alliance work. So she definitely had to tell them about the water bottles. Also, it would cost too much time to explain these to them only after they had secured the Cornucopia. As she joined Marinus to grab a tray of food at lunch, she murmured to him: "Spread the word that you as well as the others should at least check out the water bottles."

"Water bottles?" he repeated derisively.

"Water bottles," Abelia nodded. "They are not your ordinary 'add a few drops of iodine, wait a while and drink' types of bottles. More of the 'if you don't know how to work them there'll be no drinkable water for you' type. And trust me, I'll not be showing all of you in the arena. Not when there are other tributes to be hunted." She said firmly.

The edge in her voice told her district partner plain enough that if none of them learned about the bottles during training, Abelia would most likely sneak off the first night and strive out on her own. Most likely taking all the water bottles with her. He nodded. "Why are you telling me?"

Abelia shrugged. "Don't you want to be the leader of the alliance?" She could see that this answer had Marinus slightly stunned.

"The knowledge you just hinted at could well see you lead the alliance," he returned.

Abelia shook her head. "Definitely not my intention. Though I'd prefer to see our district take up the reins." No, being leader was not for her. Abelia knew well that the leader was under almost constant watch from the other allies. They would look to him for decisions, would look to him for the signal to break up the alliance, would watch him for any hint of treason. The leader could never steal away in the dead of the night. And instinctively Abelia knew that this was what she would ultimately do, well ahead of the time their alliance was destined to break apart. Because if she stayed till that point, she was as good as dead.

It was maybe her biggest weapon: her realistic assessment of her own abilities. She was trained, yes, which meant she would do better than the kids from the outer districts. She had a solid knowledge of how to handle whichever weapon she got, so could use any of them to kill most of the other tributes. But she knew she wouldn't stand a chance against Marten, Marinus or Connor, while they were still at their Cornucopia-Prime. They then simply would still have the physical strength to overpower her. She would need a decent set of bow and arrows to level the field by means of long range weapons in that situation, but from watching the old games over she knew well enough that they rarely got decent archery equipment at the Cornucopia unless some outer district tribute showed skills at it. Most likely the gamemakers felt that it would make for boring games, if their alliance was able to pick off the other kids from a safe distance by means of bow and arrow.

No, if she was still around by the time they officially declared their alliance over, there was a good chance that the boys would turn on the girls first to reduce the competition right then and there. And given that they knew about her survival skills, they might consider her a real threat then so there was even the chance of them actually working together as a last act of cooperation to bring her down. Therefore she would use her stealth training and make a run before that time came.

In the afternoon she had the satisfaction to see Rufa try out the water bottles. At least one of her allies was showing some sense. The others... Oh, how she longed to be able to form an alliance of her liking and not just go with the flow because tradition dictated it. Yes, there was a certain advantage to sticking to their long standing ally-districts, in that she was almost guaranteed to make it through the first week in the arena. But it was all so predictable. So boring. And to Abelia it felt as if the others truly did not know the least about the games they expected to domineer. The facts of second and maybe third week. She wondered if another alliance instigated by her might last longer if it reached that point. Of course it would not reach that point as her current allies would never stand for a competing alliance led by herself. She'd be dead by the second day at most. No, sticking with them, even if they were boring, was the better plan.

Given her thoughts and the incident of the afternoon with the two boys from District 3 and District 11, Abelia was in a rather morose mood by the time she entered the suite after training. Lyme looked her over with raised eyebrows. "Shower and talk or talk and then shower?" she asked.

Abelia pondered this for a moment. "I think I'll take the talk first. After all, I'm not that much in the need of a shower like others..." Next to her Marinus was showing all the signs one could expect after demonstrating to the world in one day how many weapons one knew how to handle.

"Some of us actually trained, while others took the losers' route," he jested.

Abelia rolled her eyes. "Just remember your own words when you are tempted to ask me how the bottles work...," she returned.

With this Marinus was off while Abelia took a seat beside the mentor who had personally picked her.

"I take it you checked out some of the survival stations today?" the former victor began.

Abelia nodded and repeated to Lyme her thoughts on weapons and variations in the games. "Good thing I did so," she added and told her mentor about the particular set-up of the bottles. "I figure if it weren't important they'd not have samples of the bottles at the training, which is why I let Marinus know that he and the others have to learn about them in training as it wouldn't do to waste that time on this in the arena."

Lyme nodded approvingly. "It's good to see that you are planning ahead."

"Without a plan, one is lost," Abelia shrugged. "A plan got me where I am, so why should I stop planning."

Lyme smirked. "I know that. I actually spotted you in that closet back then. I think Enobaria did as well."

Abelia's eyes widened.

"Don't worry too much about it. You did well even back then. It takes someone who had their instincts honed by surviving the arena to spot the little things like a door which is slightly ajar. But you were the first one to actually take my hints."

"You planted them intentionally?" Abelia gasped.

"Like I do every year. Every year there is someone hidden at the schools, trying to get the news on that year's choice first. But as I said, you were the first to get my meaning. However," Lyme continued, "it also puts me in a peculiar situation. How to present you to the audience? How to win you the sponsors you deserve."

"Why would it make a difference?" Abelia wanted to know.

"When people look at our tributes, they picture fierce killers. I guess we could present a twelve year old and they would still expect her to be ruthless and going through the other tributes with a rapier as fast as Capitolites go through fashion."

"But I know how to handle the weapons. It's not as if I'm useless at them and won my spot here only by knowing about edible insects." Abelia protested.

Lyme laid a soothing hand on her arm. "I am aware of that. But you are more than that. You actually have the chance to attract more than the kind of sponsors who love to back the ruthless and fierce." The mentor explained.

"And more sponsors mean better chances for me once I'm on my own," Abelia agreed.

"Now, the question though is: How to let them know that you are more than weapons and strength?" Lyme queried, obviously testing how well Abelia understood the system.

Her instinctive reply would have been through the training scores, but Abelia checked herself just in time before the words escaped her mouth. No, not the training scores. These were only a figure, and not even the tributes were told how the gamemakers had come to that particular score, much less the potential sponsors. And the tributes from District 2 always scored well. So even if she got a ten, it would not tell the sponsors that this was because of her survival skills. Most likely they would simply assume that she was particularly skilled with weapons. Moving ahead in her thoughts, she then stopped dead in her tracks when her mind came upon... "The interview!" she breathed.

Lyme smiled and nodded. It was so refreshing to work with this tribute. "So, any ideas how to use that opportunity to let the audience know your worth?" She coaxed.

Telling the audience would work, but also make her look like a prattling idiot. There was also the fact that she had only three minutes to get the point across. Which was not much time. She would need to make either a lasting impression or find a way to prolong the focus of the audience. The latter of which was usually why the stylists for District 1 so often went for the sexy look, since their tributes had their interviews first and they needed for the audience to return their eyes every now and then to the tributes. But how was she, Abelia, to achieve a lasting or recurring impression? And while sexy wouldn't really work for Tourmaline this year, it would not be that attention grabbing if _she_ went for it. The thought of wrapping a bandage around Caesar's head to show off her first aid skills, caused her to giggle. But only for a moment, then she stopped. While not the head, perhaps his arm... The host usually was up to anything to help the tributes...

Abelia was aware that her mentor was watching her carefully, waiting for an answer, but obviously willing to wait for her to arrive at her own conclusions. Then she hit gold with her next idea. While she had yet to check out the camouflage station, it was the one thing which could be turned into a stunning outfit. An outfit which had the audience look at her more than once... It could of course not be something which resembled the tree look which the stylists of District 7 always favoured... But then again, from what she had seen at the shelter station this afternoon, it was unlikely that they would be given a forest arena this year. More likely something more arid. Something which meant earth and sand shades, with a bit of grey and white and just some hints of green. She remembered something she had once seen in history class on guerrilla warfare employed during the last rebellion. Yes, it might really work. She could even get a bandage sneaked in and wrap it around Caesar's arm – definitely the arm... she wouldn't want to upset his wig and cause him to sabotage her efforts by negative parting words or bad comparisons with later tributes.

"I have an idea," she said eventually with barely concealed excitement in her voice.

Lyme nodded encouragingly.

"Do you know this history lesson from school? Where they show the old pictures of the guerrilla warfare the rebels used?"

The mentor was momentarily thrown off track by this opening, but nodded nonetheless, trusting that everything would become clear as Abelia went on.

"There was this one picture of the rebels wearing something which looked like shaggy rag suit. Where they had sewn strips of fabric to their uniforms to conceal them better out in the open."

Lyme nodded, now recalling the picture of a rebel dressed up in a ghillie suit her tribute meant.

"If my dress for the interview were to resemble that style somewhat, maybe the skirt... camouflage... Caesar almost always compliments the tributes on their outfits as an opening. It would allow me to tell him that it's a glimpse of what he can expect from me in the arena, that I know camouflage."

"But wouldn't it be more likely that you'd be mixed up with the tribute from District Seven if you went for that camouflage look?"

Abelia shook her head and explained her expectations for the arena and the resulting different colours.

"It might actually work," Lyme conceded, a bit impressed.

"We could even sneak in a bandage, concealed as sash or something. Something I could then playfully wrap around Caesar's arm to also show off my first aid skills." Abelia added.

"Might not be the everlasting impression some tributes aim for, but then again, those need to aim for it. For us it will simply be enough if it catches the attention of some undecided sponsors." Lyme judged. "And I think we can achieve this with this plan of yours. So, how about you now go and shower anyway, while I go and talk to the stylists over fancy aperitifs? I'll even threaten that we'll work on our own costume if they refuse to go along with it."

Abelia grinned and headed off to her room, happy to know that she would have her own sponsors outside the alliance's pool to keep her going when she was eventually on her own.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Hubrid knew well that he was only a gamemaker because his sister's brother-in-law's cousin's dog had once chewed on some wild dandelion, which happened to threaten the perfection of the presidential gardens and pose an unwelcome contrast to the beloved head of state's beloved roses. The resulting pat on the dog's head by the grateful gardener led to a lifetime friendship between the mentioned cousin and said gardener and eventually allowed Hubrid's name to be dropped at the right time to the right persons. Such were Capitol politics at its finest. Of course Hubrid was also well aware of the fact that a lot of his colleagues looked down on him and his connections – though most of them most likely had a similar impressing connection which got them a favour or two at the right moment – and that consequently they scrutinized every single one of his score assignments. As such he tried to only focus on the big alliance tributes during the first day of training, as these were always a safe bet. Athletics – check. Weapons – check. Mentality – check. Survival – not so... Wait a moment. Hubrid leaned forward to catch a better look of the girl who was right now making her way to the shelter station. And hadn't he seen her this morning at the table with the special water bottles and later at the fire making station? Yes, his eyes had not betrayed him; the girl was wearing a number 2 on her training outfit. A tribute from District 2 checking out the survival stations?

He hastily scribbled on his notepad.

"Not a sight to be seen every day, isn't it?" a sultry voice from beside him said.

Hubrid looked up and smiled instinctively at the woman. Millennia was perhaps the sexiest gamemaker alive. But she was equally unapproachable in this matter and much to her male colleagues' chagrin loved to toy with their baser desires.

"What, the sight of you looking good?" Hubrid jested.

"Prat!" she replied, swatting him playfully on the arm, though her voice had returned to her normal tone.

"Millennia, your charms would perhaps work better on me, if you hadn't teased me for most of my school days. I know, I was inviting it back then, drooling idiot that I was, but it at least weaned me off this particular drug of yours," Hubrid said smiling.

"Well then, back to business," Millennia said. "I saw you checking out the alliance tributes as usual. And I couldn't help but notice you noticing the girl from District Two."

"It is a rare thing to occur, you have to agree. The kids from these districts usually only check out the survival stations if they are the odd ones out, who don't make it into the alliance."

Millennia looked at him questioningly.

"You know the kind of tribute... the ones from District Four who don't quite fit the mould, who didn't get replaced by the regular volunteer. Or the ones which know they are seriously lacking in some department... Say a stunningly beautiful girl from District One, who can't handle a sword or spear and consequently would be of no use at their 'scare the other tributes'-game. Never mind that that girl is mean at hand-to-hand combat, especially when armed with a knife, but that is best kept a secret for the arena. But a girl from District Two? When there was nothing irregular at her Reaping?" Hubrid explained.

Millennia nodded. "My impression exactly. Not something you see every day. I wonder though, if she will join the intimidation game tomorrow or if she will keep those skills for her private session."

"Well, she has to show at least some weapon skills while her allies are present. Her district partner might know about her skills, but the others don't and they might be tempted to think her the weak spot of the alliance and weed her out faster than she can imagine." Hubrid reasoned.

"Likely," Millennia nodded. "It's one of the disadvantages of joining an alliance. While they display their skills to their allies, they also reveal it to the rest of the tributes."

"So, going by this theory, you'd say that this girl down there, the one from District Eleven, is being smarter? Looks like she's just turning down the boy from District Six, whose body language tells me that he didn't approach her to intimidate her, but rather invite her to join an alliance of his."

Millennia's eyes followed the direction Hubrid was giving her and watched the interaction between the two tributes in question. "I dare say she is a wise tribute. You know very well that alliances will only cause them pain in the end as they are not destined to last for too long. They may seem helpful in the beginning, but... just look at her. The way she looks at him tells me that she knows exactly how painful it will be to lose them ultimately, so she prefers to lose them already here, while she is still safe."

"But what if such an alliance would be her only chance in the games?" Hubrid mused.

"I doubt it," Millennia said. "Just now she was displaying quite passable skills with the light spears. She checked out some survival stations this morning. She has the age and experience to keep her wits even in the arena. And given her attitude regarding alliances... well, I like her. I wouldn't be surprised if she made it past the first week."

"First week? That's often almost as good as the Final Eight!" Hubrid exclaimed.

"Well, if she doesn't do something stupid, which compels us to interfere... why not?"

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	22. Chapter 20 - Training: Leadership

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 20: Training – It's all about leadership**

 _Enobaria Kespear, Mentor, D2_

Enobaria hated this part of being a victor. She thought she had come to terms with the additional duties the Capitol expected of her, that it was only a few nights a year before the games would take up all her attention. Simply because no matter how high in demand she was, it would not do for her tribute to die while she was out entertaining someone or other when a well-timed sponsor gift could have saved the tribute. No, the same policies which forced her to wine and dine with the rich protected her once the games began for good. Then it was her own choice if she agreed on such entertainment while she entrusted her tribute to someone else. But as she entered the sponsors' lounge today, she became aware that right now and even at a place, where the focus should be on this year's tributes, this year's games, it was all about her. About favours she could extend in exchange for sponsor money. A golden smile of hers would set at least half of them dreaming of what these teeth could do in a more private setting... And to have to actually seal such a deal... Well, there was not much of a choice as simply relying on their ordinary sponsors – those who liked the ruthless killer and hoped to back the future victor – was not enough in the long run of the games.

As Enobaria glanced around the lounge, her eyes fell on the table where the two mentors from District 4 sat. A small, pitiful smile curled around her lips. Yes, this year she and her golden teeth were not the only attraction here. No, District 4's own golden boy had finally returned to the Capitol.

Then she sighed. Unless Finnick Odair botched things up spectacularly – and she doubted Mags would allow this –, District 4 would have sponsor money aplenty. So she had better get to work if she wanted Marinus to be able to steal the limelight from Connor Tobin and whichever extravagant gifts Mags and Finnick would send him. Because there was no doubt in her mind whatsoever that ultimately it came down to either of these two to lead the alliance, a position which could also be the first indication as to who would be the victor. As for the other boy tribute of the alliance, there had simply been too much of an air of distraction in the face of the boy from District 1 during the parade to seriously compete for the lead and of the girls only their Abelia would stand a chance, but she seemed always content to let Marinus have that spot.

Five hours later Enobaria was ready enough to call it a day. She had sealed three deals with their regular sponsors, which was nice and easy as expected. These people were satisfied with just hearing what she knew about the tribute she was mentoring and since over the past few years she had gotten a reputation of being truthful in her praise of her tributes, they believed her readily. If they wondered about any imperfections of the tributes, they at least never asked, so Enobaria didn't have to lie either. Then she had gotten a special deal for a lunch on the interview day and another for breakfast on launch day. If she could get another such deal tomorrow for a tea date, she was as good as set. Unfortunately evenings were reserved for the President's friends, so she couldn't set up any kind of deal for that particular time slot.

Stretching, she moved to the bar and contemplated whether she should simply have a coffee or go for whichever fancy drink was now all the rage in the Capitol.

"Did you have a good day?" A friendly voice inquired from behind her.

Enobaria couldn't help but smile. It was Mags. And even though her own tributes and successful victors were always closest to her, she somehow couldn't help but mother all victors a bit. Maybe it was because she was the oldest living mentor, who still made that trip every year and as such felt that every victor under the age of fifty was something akin to the children she never had.

"What about you?" she returned the question. "Is Finnick keeping up with the expectations?"

"Oh, you'll be surprised what gifts we will be able to send our tributes this year," Mags replied with a smile which bore a hint of sad pride.

"Good. It wouldn't do for Marinus to dominate the alliance because of the bounty I'll send him."

"You think your boy has a shot at leading the alliance?"

"Don't you?"

"Connor? Yes... but your Marinus..." A mischievous gleam had entered the old woman's eyes. A gleam Enobaria knew all too well.

"What shall this year's bet be about?" she asked. The bets were becoming something of a tradition between her and the old victor, ever since Mags had used it as strategy to get Enobaria relax during her first year as mentor.

"The loser will wear polka dots at the victor's ceremony." Mags answered quickly.

One had to give it to Mags – her bets were always funny and if she lost she would look just as ridiculous as her betting partner.

"You have your bet!" Enobaria said and extended her hand. It was small things like this she loved about being a victor.

* * *

 _Marinus Bolen, D2, 18Y_

Marinus couldn't help the excitement building up in him as he eyed the training stations during the head trainer's speech. Which to try out first? Which were the stations his allies were most likely to try out first? Where could he finally meet some decent competition?

As such he was a bit disappointed when he saw his district partner head for the survival stations. He had heard some rumours at the Reaping that she was different; that she had cheated her way into the games as some from her school put it, who obviously thought that another girl should have been picked. But with the mentors handpicking the tributes in their district, it was not really possible to cheat one's way into the games. So Marinus had concluded that the guys whispering in such a degrading way were just jealous on behalf of whichever other girl they favoured and that Abelia would be actually a good tribute. Now he began to believe that there was at least some truth in those rumours and it made him wonder if she had somehow bought her way into the games, bribing the senior mentor of their district to pick her. And yet... her body was as well toned as that of any trained tribute who ever volunteered for the honour of District 2. Maybe he should just wait and see.

Eventually he decided to try out the swords first. The various blades required a lot of concentration as each was distinctly different, but nothing got him better focused.

"Which do you want?" The weapon trainer asked.

Marinus pondered this for a moment. "Would you be available to attack me with a broadsword?"

The trainer nodded without much of a visible reaction.

"Then I'll pick the gladius." While his would be the shorter sword, he would also be more agile with it.

As he began with the trainer he soon noticed first one girl and then another request the same weapon he was holding. He inwardly scoffed at them. Just because he made it look like an easy weapon didn't mean it was such. Though he had to concede that the older girl obviously knew how to handle a knife... her grip was sure, though her movements were still somewhat unrefined when it came to actual sword movements. But she was listening to the trainer, contrary to the younger girl.

"How about a swap?" the trainer suggested after half an hour.

"Sure, why not."

"Well, in this case though, would you mind my getting something a bit fancier than the gladius?"

Marinus raised his eyebrows.

"Well, we trainers get to see all weapons, but hardly do we ever get to try most of them. Only if a tribute is requesting it or showing skills that would allow us to use the more exotic ones are we allowed to take them out. And there is a really beautiful haladie dagger in the armoury I've wanted to try for a while now." The trainer explained.

Marinus felt his eyes go wide with excitement and anticipation. The rational part of him also registered that apparently his skills were such as to allow the trainer to make this suggestion – something which would surely be noted by the gamemakers and was bound to impress them training score wise. He nodded.

The haladie dagger was a real beauty, Marinus could instantly see. It was a curved double-blade dagger which in the right hands could be really dangerous. Well, of course it would also be dangerous in the wrong hands, though then it might be more dangerous for the wielder...

After another sparring round, Marinus knew he wanted to try out the weapon himself. He doubted the gamemakers would place such a weapon in the Cornucopia for him, but at least he could try it out now.

Lunch gave him another surprise when Abelia told him about the water bottles. Apparently there was some merit in her checking out those stations. Maybe she was just playing it smart, leaving weapons for the last day and of course private session. Her training scores surely would tell. But what surprised him even more was her claim that she wanted him to lead the alliance. Before this, he had not given much thought to it. To him it had simply been a competition and since he was so used to winning any competition, he was sure that he would also win this one and be the leader of their alliance. Now, though, it dawned on him that others of their alliance, especially the boys, might have been in much the same position back home and would therefore be competing for leadership here same as he did. Well, good thing then that it was lunch time. Time to set some things straight.

The meal consequently turned into a game of one-upmanship between Connor and him, Marten being strangely quiet, while his district partner loudly backed up once Marinus and once Connor, not much caring about anything but being heard above the din.

"One time at the wrestling match..."

"Then, on the boat..."

"You should have seen it... He nearly wet himself..."

"... barely knowing how to hold a spear..."

This last remark, while having most of them laugh, had Marinus inwardly step back and examine his approach. As funny as Connor's anecdote had been about some hapless seven-year-olds getting their first lessons at spear-throwing, they had all been in their place once. And was it showing real leader-skills if they only laughed at the younger and weaker ones? He suddenly recalled how different the approach and success of the two girls with the gladius had been earlier... only one had asked for the help, which was being offered readily, and her progress had been noticeable. Same for the boy with the broadsword. The trainers there had led them in their instruction. Even he, who already had a solid knowledge with weapons, had been given help and encouragement. So, was it not more of leadership to also offer help? And of course know when and whom to offer help? Or help without stopping to offer first? A leader was someone they had to be able to depend upon, not someone who left them to fend for themselves, while the alliance was still in place. Imagine one of them being hurt accidentally and as such barely able to hold a spear – much like a seven-year-old? Laughing would be the wrong thing to do, as would be abandoning them if their wound was not fatal. They might still have valuable skills. Imagine they acted the wrong way and the injured one being Abelia, an Abelia who had kept the knowledge of those water bottles to herself...

As these thoughts hastened through his mind, Marinus knew what he had to do in order to assert his superiority over Connor. "There was this kid, just the age you mentioned, struggling with his training sword. But I could see his determination – and that he was slightly off-centre, which made it all the more difficult for him. So I showed him a few tricks how to centre better. I even had him walk the balancing beam with the sword. His comrades laughed at him for doing such a girly thing, but already a few weeks later he was top of his class."

"True, knowing about centre and balance is often half it takes to win a fight," Connor agreed and launched into an anecdote of his own performance at the rope-course, requiring exactly those two skills.

Marinus listened politely, but smiled inwardly. Connor had conceded that point to him, which was as good as acknowledging him as leader. Who cared that there never had been such a kid he had helped? There was nobody to check the veracity of his story. And if Abelia found out, he would simply point out that he was only doing what she had wanted – asserting leadership for District 2. Already Tourmaline and Rufa were shooting him thoughtful and somewhat admiring glances.

In the afternoon he checked out the knife throwing range. While there were also spears to throw, his personal preference was with weapons which sported sharp blades. As it was however next to the spear throwing station he was in a prime position to witness Marten lose his spears to that imp from District 3. And as leader of their alliance, Marinus of course felt honour-bound to accompany Marten as he went to set that tribute straight. A leadership which was further cemented by Connor's absence in this show of strength as his rival was currently training with a spiked chain-mace at the other end of the hall and had yet to notice the commotion at the shelter station. Well, a good leader was always aware of his allies...

However, the almost casual way those two boys talked about his alliance eventually killing them in the arena disturbed him greatly. For all of this day so far, in fact ever since he had boarded the train, Marinus had been able to push the thought of soon having to kill someone away. Now it was all back in full force, along with the insecurity he felt, not knowing if he could do it. As he feared that his insecurity was showing – something that was not acceptable for a tribute from District 2, the leader of their alliance, the future victor of these games – Marinus swiftly walked away. The confrontation was over anyway and it was far more acceptable to appear busy than weak. Yet in his current state of mind he found a strange distaste for his otherwise beloved weapons right now. He shrugged unseen and decided follow Abelia's example and check out some survival station. The water bottle station was too close to the shelter station for his liking, but the fire making station put a nice distance between him and those boys, so he walked over to that station.

He had soon enough built himself some nice fire and while it was more difficult to light it with flint and steel than with a match, it was easy enough. As he repeated the spark generating motion over and over again, to make sure his muscles remembered, his mind kept returning to the conversation at the shelter station, and he resolved to speak with his mentor that evening. Surely someone as fierce as Enobaria could help him, even if she thought him weak for this. But in the end, she was his mentor and would want him to succeed, so she would do her best to help him overcome this insecurity.

When they returned to their suite later that day though, only Lyme was there to greet them. As such, Marinus readily took Abelia's hint and went to take a long shower. However, at dinner Enobaria was still absent and he couldn't help asking where she was.

"She was invited to a party one of the President's friends is giving tonight," Lyme replied. "Of course she couldn't refuse, no matter how much she would prefer to be here with us..."

Marinus and Abelia nodded understandingly. A friend of the President... surely lots of influential and – more important – wealthy people would be there... potential sponsors...

Yet Marinus wondered why Lyme was not invited as well. Surely she would want to speak to these people as well, so as to get them interested in Abelia, for while Enobaria might mention the girl tribute, Marinus was her special focus, her tribute. This much Abelia and he had been told on the train. That each of them was assigned to their own mentor, who would look out for them. Abelia was to be Lyme's and he Enobaria's tribute. It had made sense then. After all he had been informed of his being chosen as volunteer by Enobaria and Abelia had confirmed that with her it had been Lyme to pay her that visit. But now... how was Enobaria going to mentor him, if she was not there to answer his questions and talk about strategies? Or did she think that if he had had any questions, he would have asked them on the train? Or was the separation into tribute-mentor pairs not as strict as it had sounded back on the train? Maybe he was supposed to talk to Lyme in Enobaria's absence?

But while Marinus was quite sure that should he approach Lyme with his problem she would help him – if only because it would not do for a tribute from their district to freeze up in the middle of the Bloodbath and get himself killed –, it wouldn't keep her from sharing his weakness with Abelia to give her an advantage over him. After all, they might now be allies, but there would be a time when they would be enemies. Therefore he said nothing but decided to stay up and wait for Enobaria's return, no matter what time of night it might be.

It was more like morning than night by the time his mentor returned, uncomfortable looking shoes in hand so as to walk without disturbing anyone with the clacking noise that footwear was bound to make. But Marinus had been true to his decision and even if it was already past four in the morning, he was still awake.

"Marinus," Enobaria called out surprised and almost dropped the shoes. "You really shouldn't have stayed up all night. Now you'll be tired for training tomorrow. Or rather today..." She shook her head disapprovingly.

Marinus shrugged. "Better tired on a training day than on launch day," he said matter-of-factly. "But when else was I supposed to talk to you? For all I know you'll be invited to some party again tonight."

His mentor sighed. "You might be correct. It seems that the Capitol simply can't get enough of my golden smile... I'm just glad that I didn't set a fashion trend with it." She flashed him a short smile.

He couldn't help but shudder, remembering the final scenes of her games.

She smiled sadly at him. "While I don't regret what I did, I'm not proud of it either. But if the other has the weapon and you don't... you remember that you still have a weapon. Never underestimate your will to live."

Marinus nodded slowly. In hand-to-hand combat, close up, lethal, he did not doubt that his instincts would kick in and just see him survive. It might even work for the Bloodbath. But between the Bloodbath and that final fight...

Obviously sensing that there was something really troubling Marinus, Enobaria sat down beside him on the sofa. "Okay, spill it. What had you waiting up all night for me?"

"The hunt..." Marinus breathed.

Enobaria raised her eyebrows.

"I don't think I can stalk the other tributes and hunt them down. Well, the hunt I might be able to do... but the actual killing that can't be attributed to my survival instincts..."

"I see..." Enobaria closed her eyes for a moment – a long moment, which had Marinus fear that she had actually fallen asleep next to him – then said: "Whatever you do, don't make it look like you don't want to kill the tribute. Make it swift if you can't avoid it being you who kills the other one. There are enough sick people here in the Capitol who would not mind seeing you taking your sweet time bringing another tribute from this life to the next, but nobody will be angry either if you make it swift. Especially not if you can make it look like you are just too busy with the grand scheme to be bothered with little things. That you don't want to delay your victory unnecessarily."

"You just said 'if I can't avoid it'... How can I avoid killing anyone without looking weak?"

Enobaria laughed softly. "Why, by being the leader of the alliance of course! As leader you can command someone to do it for you."

Could it really be that simple? If so, it was a good thing he had already begun to lay the groundwork for his leadership.

* * *

 _Connor Tobin, D4, 18Y_

When Connor entered the dining room of their suite on the first day of training, he found himself surprisingly grateful that so far it was only Mags and him, who were up for breakfast. It still rankled on him that this boy Finnick was posing as mentor this year, even if Rufa was the one to deal with him. The mere sight of the victor of the 65th games had Connor close up and become all morose.

Mags greeted him pleasantly. "First day of training... Any symptoms of nervousness?" she inquired jokingly, though her wizened eyes let him know it would be okay to confess being nervous.

Connor scoffed as he helped himself to a generous amount of food. "It won't really be training. At least not the way I'm used to."

Mags nodded. "Still, there'll be others, who are trained..."

"Maybe, though I'm sure they'll not be overwhelming competition."

His mentor sighed. "Connor, self-confidence is a good thing, but it won't serve you well to underestimate your allies. I take it from your speech that you see yourself the leader of the alliance?"

Connor nodded. "Of course! I'll show them what a proper tribute from District Four looks like."

Mags' face hardened and she said sternly: "Try again!"

Connor was slightly taken aback. Surely his mentor saw that Finnick was a fluke, no real victor.

"I told you just a minute ago not to underestimate others. Finnick lived through his games and killed to do so. The only things you killed so far are fish and mosquitoes. So if you intend to be the leader of the alliance and enter the games with the idea of showing Finnick up, you'll already have lost." The steel in Mags' voice was unmistakable. "You are you, Finnick is Finnick. Be your own man, with your own dreams, in your own games, with your own strategies and don't live for the past. Else its shadows will hunt you down in the arena. I would like nothing more than to bring home another victor, but... Now, try again and tell me, why you think it should be you who'll lead the alliance," Mags urged.

Connor paused for a moment. He had not for one second doubted Mags' determination to bring home another victor, which was why he had been so glad to have her as mentor. But he realized that she had been just as determined the year before and that Algernon hat been just as qualified a tribute as he was. And yet it had been the girl from District 8, who in the end had worn the victor's crown. Yes, there had been a decided difference between the arenas, where Finnick had gotten lucky and Algy had not. And yet, luck could not be all as nobody could say that last year's arena in any way resembled District 8.

Had this been perhaps Algernon's mistake? Had he wanted to show all of Panem, how much better than Finnick he was and had only focussed on that instead of finding his own style, his own strategy, his own whatever it took to actually survive? If so, Connor knew he had to thank Mags for warning him this early. And the best way to thank her was to come up with a better and still honest answer to her question.

It was one of the words she had used, which gave him the key to his reply: dreams.

He took a deep breath, then said: "When I win, I want to use the fact that it's expected of me to take up some useless hobby to start a circus." And he told her of his idea that by entertaining the Capitol, he would be able to recruit some of the graduating classes and keep them from falling into the depth of the despair named reality. "Of course it would be my circus; I would be its director. I'll have to lead then as well."

Mags nodded appreciatory. "A worthy dream. Keep it always in mind and it will help you go on, even when you are exhausted or hurt or afraid. The latter of course only in the depth of your heart, but same as it wouldn't do to let that fear show, it would be unhealthy to deny the truth even to yourself."

Connor nodded and the sound of footsteps approaching brought an end to their confidential conversation. As he continued eating his breakfast, he began pondering how to assert his leadership among his allies. With his circus it would be easy. He would be the victor, the tried and proven best. The best... Now, that should work. He'd simply show the others that he was the best among them all-round, and they would realize that it was only natural that he should be the leader of their alliance. To achieve this he would show off as many of his skills as possible, thereby at the same time frightening the untrained tributes and demonstrating to his allies that with him as leader their alliance would be truly feared. Maybe though he should keep one or two skills to himself and only reveal them in his private session... it might come in handy to have a secret trump to play when their alliance broke apart.

Sticking to this plan, Connor headed straight for the throwing weapons as soon as the head trainer finished her speech and dismissed them. Several throwing ranges were allocated conveniently close to each other, thereby making for time-efficient showing off. He started with the knives as everybody knew that tributes from his district knew how to throw a spear or a harpoon, so it would barely impress anyone. After all, they were the fishing district. And while there were also non-fishing jobs in their district, like meteorology or any work in the cannery, the academy saw to it that all of them knew how to handle a spear. Of course Conner would later go and confirm the others' expectations when it came to spears, but first the knives.

Soon he was joined by the boy tribute from District 6. Connor couldn't help smirking, when one by one the knives he threw stuck in their designated targets whereas the other boy's ended up useless on the floor.

Connor saw Rufa at the throwing range next to him, spear in hand, and winked at her, then looked in the direction of the boy from District 6. His next round of throws had them snigger at the attempts of hitting the target and Connor couldn't help showing off once more how knives were to be thrown. Perhaps one or two more rounds and he would move on to demonstrate another skill.

It was then that the boy from 6 suddenly surprised him. After having talked to the trainer, he returned to the throwing line, this time equipped with throwing stars instead of knives. And while none of the stars lined up straight, they all suddenly struck dead centre. Connor didn't realize he had been staring dumbstruck till the boy smirked and went away to try some survival station.

As disconcerting as it had been to witness the other tribute's competence with the throwing stars, it did not matter much in the end, Connor decided. Even if the gamemakers added the stars to the weapon supply in the Cornucopia, the tribute from District 6 would never get them. All things stashed inside the Cornucopia were theirs. And wouldn't it be nice irony to kill the other one with exactly the weapons meant for him?

Lunch was a great affair with Marinus and him trading stories. But something must have happened at some point, because Connor couldn't help but notice the glances Rufa and Tourmaline kept sending in Marinus' direction; glances they were not sending towards him.

Well, whatever it was, it wouldn't keep him from pursuing his plan, as the others sooner or later would see that skills outweighed pretty words and words were all that had been exchanged during lunch.

Working with the mace and the swords in the afternoon felt great and Connor was quite pleased with the progress he had made in securing his position. His good mood however received a severe blow, when Rufa, during dinner, related the incident at the shelter station.

"I didn't witness everything close up," she said, "as I felt that with Marten and Marinus chasing those boys and Abelia being already at the shelter station there were more than enough of us to get the point across. I had already had my own run-in with those two, so could well imagine that they were up to no good. Later I asked Abelia about the details..."

As his district partner went on with her story, Connor couldn't prevent a dark cloud descending on him. He hadn't even noticed the incident, whereas Marinus had made the difference, which told those boys that whatever they did, there were always more of their alliance than those two could handle. Without Marinus it would have been the two boys versus two of their alliance. With Marinus... And the fact that it had been Marinus, who had backed up Marten and Abelia, gave all the impression that he was the leader. A fact, which also seemed to be confirmed by his own absence. He then with a start realized what his mistake at lunch had been: He had allowed it to look like he agreed with and consequently deferred to Marinus with that story of the little boy.

Well, if he wanted to be angry with anyone, it would have to be himself. Connor was honest enough to realize that those had been his own mistakes and that he couldn't blame Marinus for exploiting them. After all, he would have done the same if positions had been reversed. And hadn't Mags just this morning warned him not to underestimate others? Both the boy tribute from District 6 and his own ally had shown him exactly how true her words had been and he could only be grateful that he had been taught that lesson during training days and not in the arena.

Armed with this insight, Connor knew he had two choices. One was to quit vying for leadership and find something else with which to make his mark in their alliance and impress the audience and sponsors to back him up till the victor's crown was his. The other was to find a way to outdo the impression Marinus had made today, claim leadership for himself and let this be his mark and see the sponsors flock around him. Guess which choice he preferred...

But how to achieve this?

Alone in his bedroom, Connor lay awake till late in the night. Mags had noticed his absent-minded state, but had accepted it when he had declined her offer of help. He felt that this was something he had to solve himself. He couldn't rely on Mags to serve him everything on a silver platter as she wouldn't be with him in the arena.

As he thought over the day, another titbit of what Rufa had told them at dinner came to his mind. It was about those water bottles Abelia had discovered. Yes, it had been Marinus, who let them know that it was important they all check them out, but all knew that Marinus had been nowhere near that station during the morning, whereas Abelia had. It was at dinner that Rufa had confirmed that their set-up was definitely too peculiar to not be important. So, what would have happened, had Abelia not gone to check out the survival stations and discovered the bottles? Yes, he had jeered at her just as all the others of their alliance had, but now he thought that maybe Abelia had just been the really clever one. Plus by checking out the survival stations, she was showing the outer district tributes that they weren't even safe from them in what some might consider their own domain. Connor had to admit that in terms of strategy, Abelia's approach was definitely a crafty one.

A slow smile spread over his lips, as he realized that none of them so far, Marinus and he included, had bothered thinking about a strategy. Well, of course they had all thought about their own personal strategies, but no one had stopped to think of a strategy for their alliance. But wasn't this one of the things a true leader did? So all he now had to do was to come up with a good strategy for their alliace. And while a lot of it would depend upon the actual arena they would face, there had to be some things they could do before launch day. Like...

"Back-up," Connor explained as their alliance grouped together the next morning as a show of strength. "We all know about weapons and we know to learn about the bottles." He nodded his acknowledgement to Abelia. "But what about first aid or fire making? While we'll have the supplies of the Cornucopia and a lot of it will be self-explanatory, some stuff might not be. And what use is it if Abelia knows how to splint a broken limb, but it might be her who needs us to splint her broken arm? Of course we all hope it will never come to this," he swiftly added. "But it would be better to be prepared. We needn't all of us know everything, but it won't hurt to have a second one knowing for each of the important things as back-up. I'll volunteer for the first aid part," Connor finished and looked at his allies, inviting them to pick up the ball he had tossed them. They all looked pensive at his words and he thought he even noticed a hint of grudging respect in Marinus' eyes. Not only was his suggestion a good one, he had even set them a shining example.

"Abelia, which station are you checking out first today?" Tourmaline eventually asked.

The girl from District 2, while perhaps the least appreciative of Connor's plan as it deprived her of some of the advantage she had otherwise held over them, shrugged and replied: "Edible insects."

Tourmaline swallowed lightly, but then said: "Hope you don't mind if I join you..."

Abelia shrugged once more and Connor breathed a silent sigh of relief. With Tourmaline showing her support and Abelia not opposing the plan he was now a solid step ahead of Marinus.

True to his words, Connor did go to the first aid station and learned all about bandaging up his allies. He also checked out the water bottles. And he had to admit: Both stations gave him the feeling of being truly a bit better prepared for the arena than before.

Lunch was a quieter affair than the day before, partly because Connor didn't want to commit another error by speaking too freely, and partly because Marinus had yet to come up with a decent idea with which to counter his move. The girls dominated the conversation and when Tourmaline told of her encounter with the two annoying boys from Districts 3 and 11 after she had quitted the insect station, Connor felt relief to see that he was not the only one frowning at her. Her district partner obviously was displeased as well that after they had agreed on the back-up plan and she had volunteered to be their back-up for insects, she had promptly let them down.

Of course he couldn't be spared his own confrontation with the two nuisances in the afternoon, when he had just had enough of the boy from District 12 focussing so single-mindedly on the obstacle course and had decided to unsettle him a bit. But all in all, Connor was well satisfied with this day. More so than the day before, as that night nothing Rufa said during dinner changed his mood. And wasn't this another sign of true leadership: To learn from one's mistakes, get up again, and be an even better leader thereafter?

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Rengard was drunk again. He hated that part of the Hunger Games season. He was member of the team that scouted the land for a suitable stretch which could be converted into an arena and where to implement the tools with which to herd up tributes if necessary in the selected stretch. But once this was done, he was more or less on standby, running odd errands for others, who would only then spring into action. Fetching layouts, even coffee... Still, this was not something he ever complained about. It kept him busy. He did not do well with being idle. But right now the arena was completed and all they were supposed to do was to assign training scores to this year's tributes. As if the scores were worth anything. Yes, the scores were supposed to give the betting folks and sponsors an idea of what the tributes were capable of doing. But about half the time the scores were misleading in that the tributes from the big alliance often were the ones with the highest scores, yet did not end up winning. So why bother and really take a close look? Of course Rengard knew he had to watch the tributes well enough to ensure his score suggestions did not deviate too much from the others or they would be discussing things till the next morning. But over the years he had come to perfect his system of point assignment. He made sure to be the one to state his scores for one or the other tribute from the big alliance first and then wait with the rest for someone else to take the lead and simply agree with one of the scores pitched. And the tributes from the big alliance were easy enough. Even before the head trainer had finished her speech on the first day of training he had scribbled down random 9s for the boys and 8s for the girls and been done with it.

How he longed for the games to finally begin. Then each of them would be assigned a tribute to monitor in the arena, ensure the cameras capturing interesting scenes for the next day's coverage or even as live feed were working properly, et cetera. Then he'd be head up in watching and discussing when to use their traps and such, even if his tribute was one of the unfortunate ones who died during the first hour in the arena.

Now however he could only signal for another glass of wine and try to get through another day of boredom.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	23. Chapter 21 - Training: Strategy

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 21: Training – It's all about strategy**

 _Finnick Odair, Mentor, D4_

He had bolted from the sponsors' lounge and was now trying to hide in one of the corners just out of sight. It was bad enough to deal with his new nightly duties – well last night had not been as bad as it could have been thanks to the words from the boy from District 5 –, but to be viewed like people viewed the fish in the markets at home even at the sponsors' lounge was just too much right now. Did they really expect him to sell himself for further sponsor money to help his tribute? Even Mags seemed to expect it to a certain degree. And deep down Finnick couldn't help but feel a bit betrayed by her. Not once since he had been crowned victor had she told him about this part of his new life. Yes, he guessed that it was the President's pleasure to do so and that everyone else was sworn to secrecy or something like that. And that Mags had probably risked a lot when she had approached Balraj to arrange for the conversation with Evan. Still, hadn't Mags already sold him by the time she had gathered all that sponsor money that had helped him win his games?

But if this was the only way for him to get money for Rufa, could he really not do it? Finnick didn't know if he could live with him if he sent Rufa into the games with no money to help her. And he knew that she needed that help. But wouldn't getting her that help mean ultimately selling her as well, should she survive? Could he live with that?

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noted a movement and pressed himself deeper into the corner, yet it was no use. At least, he noted, it was not Mags, who had come to drag him back. Though the thought of Ruby Jones, mentor of District 1, who had won her games some good ten years ago – he had only vague memories of her games, maybe the first he remembered anything of – having come to mock him was not pleasant either.

Indeed, soon enough she stood before him, arms crossed in front of her chest and looked down on him, something made possible by her wearing perhaps the highest heeled shoes he had ever seen anyone other than escorts wearing. "Don't tell me you are already giving up," she mocked. "You are a victor. I thought the youngest victor in the history of the games was a bit tougher!"

"Give me a trident and I show you tough!" Finnick growled, as his patience was reaching an all-time low. Plus it was probably safer to lose his patience with a fellow mentor than with a sponsor or, heaven prevent, a special friend of the President.

"A-ah!" Ruby shook her head, her long glossy hair swaying softly. "Would be bad advertisement to attack sponsors. At least unless you are sure you have been mentioned as beneficiary in their testaments, with no disqualifying terms such as murder."

Finnick eyed her warily. Despite being something around thirty, Ruby was still a very beautiful woman. He then realized that she most likely was still serving the Capitol much as was expected of him. The thought of having to do just this for a decade or more had him almost lose his breakfast. "How do you stand it? How can you joke about it?"

"Crying doesn't help," Ruby said matter-of-factly. "It just means you get your blotchy face caked with make-up so you still look your radiant best for the evening. So joking is actually the easier way to deal with it. Also, it's only a few days a year... But really, the sponsors are easier to deal with as nobody is dictating the prices. You get a lot of leeway in haggling with them. Nights are fixed things. But at lunch... you set your own prices. This is a market of supply and demand. Right now the demand for Finnick Odair is high. But there's only one Finnick Odair to deal with the supply. Make them pay a lot for just the pleasure of showing you off to their friends, while you do nothing more than drink a cup of coffee with them."

Finnick stared at her surprised. If what she said was true, he held a lot of power in his hands... "Why are you telling me?" He croaked out. Whatever he had expected, it certainly hadn't been sage advice.

"You are one of us now. You are a victor; you are going to be a constant in the upcoming years. And in the end, we help each other, especially with our tributes often ending up in the same alliance."

"But why hasn't Mags told me all these things? Why are you taking the time now, time you might use to get sponsors for your tribute?" Finnick still couldn't believe it.

"Mags is old. She won her games long before the Capitol got the idea of making use of us in this way. It's possible she doesn't realize how many nuances there are to being a victor in high demand. As for my tribute..." Ruby sighed. "Let's say, she won't win. Yes, she's clever, she's capable, but she doesn't have the mentality it takes. So I can afford being here. But you are right; I should at least make an effort. Same as you. Our tributes might after all surprise us."

* * *

 _Rufa Coley, D4, 17Y_

There was something odd about training. Watching all those tributes from the outer districts made Rufa realize one thing: They all wanted to survive! No matter how high their chances were realistically, they wanted to win and return back home. Much the same as she wanted. When she had volunteered to save her sister from her own folly, she had known that while she stood a better chance than some fourteen year old girl with her head in the clouds, she was not as well trained as Connor Tobin to begin with. That ultimately her chances were not that great at all. Her mother had known that, too. Yet, compared to the outer districts her chances weren't that bad, were they? Then, meeting her allies, she had come to see that perhaps with the exception of Tourmaline from District 1, there were three more tributes whose chances had to be ranked a lot higher than hers. And yet, the way the stations were calling out to the tributes, promising them the knowledge they needed to have a chance at surviving in the arena made her realize how much she wanted to win. But how? How to beat the odds?

Maybe Finnick could help her with this. The odds had also been against him to a certain point. Yes, the arena had been one that gave any tribute from District 4 an edge, but there were always two tributes from a district, and the girl tribute that year had had four years of additional training. Sponsor money could only make that much of a difference. Yes, it had bought Finnick his preferred weapon when he had not stood a chance to get one from the Cornucopia as he had not been part of the alliance. But his district partner had had access to all those weapons. The coastal arena had allowed them food without having to learn about it during training. So, what had been his secret? That he, as the odd one out, had survived them all?

Instinctively Rufa knew that if she wanted to discuss this with her mentor tonight, she would have to have as much information as possible. It was then that she realized she didn't even have to talk with Finnick to know what to do. That she already knew what he had done. She had watched the games after all. She now remembered how he had set up traps, each differing, designed purposely to match the tribute they were intended for. That he had somehow gotten the measure of all the tributes and known how to trap them. Even the ones from the alliance. And that she could do the same.

She even had the advantage of being part of the alliance; she had access to the weapons and as such Finnick wouldn't have to spend precious sponsor money on getting her properly equipped. Of course, she would need the information on the tributes if this plan was to work. She would have to watch her allies and the other tributes alike, trying to find their weaknesses. It would not do to discount a single tribute and assume he or she would die during the bloodbath only to have them survive and she was then later faced with a hunger crazed tribute she knew nothing about. And, she decided, she would still talk it over with Finnick. If only to get a second opinion.

As the group broke apart and began heading to the different training stations, Rufa immediately headed to the spear throwing station. It wouldn't surprise anyone, but it would allow her to concentrate on other things, while at the same time confirming to her allies that she had alliance worthy skills. Because even though everybody assumed they would form the traditional group, Rufa also knew that everyone of them would have to prove themselves.

Handling the weapon with practiced ease, Rufa was at leisure to go over her rudimentary plan. She shuddered lightly when she realized that even on this first day, she was actively planning how to take down her own allies eventually. Oh, if only they knew... Sure, they might, on a subconscious level, do the same, but actively... She'd have to be careful and make sure not to let anything slip. It meant not taking the limelight, not stepping out of the line, just appearing as a loyal, perhaps even slightly submissive ally. Someone the others might think they could easily get rid of when their alliance broke apart. Or even someone they'd sacrifice if need be. Well, the latter she would have to take care of that it didn't happen... But yes, she'd be the perfect little ally.

She saw Connor winking at her and following his eyes, dutifully sniggered along with him at the mishap of the tribute from District 6. Thank you, Connor, she thought. Thank you for alerting me of the fact that this tribute is good at throwing things, if not making them stuck. And a moment later she had a hard time not to smirk at Connor's dumbstruck face when with the right weapon the other tribute managed to make his throws count. Yes, this tribute would definitely bear watching. Maybe... maybe the gamemakers would add those throwing stars to the weapon supply. The boy from District 6 might not get them, but she might be able to lure him into a trap with them... Though not in the beginning of the games, he would be too much on his guard then and suspect the trap. No, trapping him would have to wait till she was on her own, should he make it that far. Hm, she would have to make sure that she was the one to claim them from their stash of weapons. And in order to claim them, she would have to know how to handle them.

Seeing the tribute leave the station for some survival training, she handed her spear back to the trainer and asked for the stars. "Throwing stars?" The trainer confirmed.

Rufa nodded. "I just saw the boy from District Six work with them. I've never tried them, but thought it might be worth it. We never know what weapons will be available in the arena. Might be that there are no spears at all, but plenty of throwing stars, right?" Okay, it was unlikely that there were no spears, but it elicited a small laugh from the trainer and with a smile still lingering he got her the stars and showed her how to hold them and the different ways of throwing them.

Strange enough, she never got asked by her allies why she had tried out that particular weapon, as Marinus and Connor were too busy trying to outdo each other with stories over lunch. It was so obvious what they both were trying. But at one point it became clear that Connor was not paying enough attention... She had to admire the way Marinus had managed to get Connor to agree with him.

After lunch she continued her act as dutiful ally and went to the water bottle station. It was there that two other tributes revealed something about themselves, the boys from Districts 3 and 11. The two boys didn't seem to take anything serious, while at the same time still managing to pick up some skills. The incident at the shelter station later only confirmed her suspicion: They might become reckless in the arena. Not reckless enough to go for the things in the Cornucopia, but afterwards... And the way they were laughing and joking together, Rufa knew they'd have to get them both at the same time. Leave one behind...

Dinner taught her more about her district partner. While Connor certainly was capable – she would even go as far as say capable enough to be a decent leader of their alliance should Marinus decide that he didn't want that spot after all – he was also a bit over-confident and didn't like to be upstaged. But how to upstage him in the arena? Especially without getting herself killed in the progress?

"See if the arena provides something you can use as look-out," Finnick told her. He had been absent at dinner, but Mags had assured her that he would be back before breakfast and that latest at that time they could have their talk. Not fancying waiting up all night for her mentor, Rufa had instead asked one of the avoxes to wake her at five in the morning so that she would have time enough before breakfast for her much needed talk with Finnick. Obviously Mags had told him or left him a note or something, because she had not been in the living room for more than half an hour, before he joined her. He still looked tired, but was adamant that it was nothing a cup of coffee couldn't deal with and coffee the avoxes had already brought to the living room. He then listened intently to Rufa's analysis and plan, going even so far as to tell her that he was relieved that aside from Mags someone else finally saw what he had done. They had now gotten to Connor and the problem Rufa was facing there.

"Height is always an advantage when you are facing only one foe. You can gloat at them, goad them from high up. If it's more than two, you're in trouble as you can't keep an eye on all of them and someone might climb up unseen behind you, so that by the time you turn to deal with the climber another one of them gets a clear shot with a spear or knife at you. But one on one... height is the key."

"But Connor is the one who is the expert on the rope course, he's the climber. I don't think I could out-scale him and hide in trees or such..." Rufa said sceptically.

"Height isn't always a tree. Think back... I was given cliffs. And even if Connor is better at climbing than you are, you will already be on the high point, whereas he has to still make his way up. And climbing means he needs both hands and feet. He won't be in a position to try and take you out with a thrown weapon. You on the other hand... Also, you'll prepare that spot; make it as difficult as possible for him to climb."

Rufa nodded slowly. "Height... I think I can do this."

"Of course you can. Now, tell me about the others."

They spoke for two solid hours, and by the time Rufa donned her training clothes, she felt a lot calmer than the day before. Surprisingly, Connor played exactly into her hands, when he suggested his back-up plan. Earlier that morning, Finnick and she had decided that she should check out the trap and knot-tying stations today if she could manage to do so without arousing her allies' suspicions. Now it was easy to volunteer to be their back-up for those skills and still look like the simple and dutiful ally.

All the while she continued her observation of the other tributes and soon enough realized that a lot of them would be hunted down while the alliance was still going strong. And the lone sheep never stood a chance against a pack of wolves. Those who might still be around by the time the alliance broke up, she was pretty sure she could manage on her own. Especially if she managed to get hold of some spears. These would help her, in case the boy from District 8 or the girl from District 3 were still in the games at that time, even if they managed to get their hands on some swords. A long range weapon always held the advantage there. The girl from District 11 was a bigger problem in that respect, having shown some decent skills with the light spears the previous day. She had obviously handled those before. But she also kept strictly to herself, so would have nobody to have her back and might even fall victim to any other rogue alliance. Or be brought down while she slept as there was nobody to take turns in watching and sleeping... Yes, Rufa decided, if this girl was still out there by the time the alliance broke apart, she would stalk her down and swiftly see to her end while she was sleeping.

Lunch was illuminating in that it let her know that she needn't worry about Tourmaline. She inwardly shook her head as she listened to the girl. For someone whose every action screamed that she wanted to belong and show to all others that she belonged, she was incredibly stupid. In order to belong, you had to hold your end of the bargain, which in this case had been learning about edible insects. None of them cared, if these crawling things looked like miniature monsters; it had been Tourmaline's job to learn about them in case they needed it because through some unforeseen happenstance they lost their supplies early and ended up being dependent on the food sources the arena offered. For a few seconds, Rufa played with the thought of volunteering to check out that station after lunch, but then decided against it. She didn't want to give the impression that she was trying to show the most dedication to their cause and be brown-nosing and such. But the frown she saw on both Marten's and Connor's face told her that Tourmaline would be taken care of by one of their own before the alliance broke apart.

Abelia posed a huge problem to Rufa. The way she went about the survival stations told her that these were merely a refresher course for the girl from District 2, so she would be more than well prepared for the time after the alliance. And as of yet, Rufa did not even know which weapon she favoured, so did not know if she had any long distance advantage on her. Deep down, Rufa was even sure that Abelia would not show her most important weapon skills tomorrow, when she was certain to show at least one or two if just to assure her allies that she was more than insects and knots. As much as she disliked it, Rufa was forced to postpone any planning with regards to the other girl till she had more information – which she would only get when they were already in the arena. Then and there, Rufa decided that Abelia was perhaps the biggest threat among her allies.

As the day wore on, she began to focus more and more on the remaining boys from their alliance. Somehow she doubted that she could goad them like she could do with Connor. She knew next to nothing about their personalities, as Marten was mostly silent and even Marinus, who had openly traded stories with Connor the previous day, seemed to have a much better hold on himself than her district partner had had the previous day. After all, he had not done something rash or stupid after Connor had one-upped him with his back-up plan. The longer she thought about it, the more she became convinced that with him, she would have to be truly devious. That she would have to stab Marinus in the back while the alliance was still on, preferably in such a way that she could blame someone else for it. Maybe it would work also for Marten instead. She would have to see, but she also knew it would work only for one of them. With the alliance already taking care of Tourmaline and she killing one of the strong boys before they went their separate ways meant that their group would then be getting so small that they couldn't survive as alliance if she also killed another one this way. After all, the pack needed a certain strength in number to still have the power of the pack. Maybe if she timed it so that the second death coincided with when they were ready anyway to part ways... as last act... and then make a dash for it and not wait for the official declaration that the alliance was over? Well, she would have to see how things played out in the arena.

* * *

 _Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1, 17Y_

It had been with great reluctance that Tourmaline had washed off the make-up after the parade. She had never felt so beautiful before and she wished she could keep it longer. But nothing would wash away the warm glowing feeling in her stomach as she had eyed herself in the mirror one last time and knew that she had been right: The Capitol stylists truly had unveiled her real beauty. Now nobody back home could deny the fact any longer that when it came to looks, she did not disappoint the expectations everyone had with regards to District 1. Take that, Helena! She had thought as she had finally splashed water onto her face.

As she dressed into her training clothes the next morning, she felt much plainer, but glancing at the gold painted finger nails, she knew better. She was not plain. She finally was where she had belonged all her life. And today would just cement this, when she became vital part of the strong alliance. Tourmaline frowned for just a moment when she remembered Marten's face on the train. He had asked her why she had refused the volunteer and had not understood her reasoning. He, too, obviously felt that she had stolen Helena's future. She didn't want to think about what his reaction would have been had he found out how she had rigged the Reaping. No, he couldn't know. Ever. But at least he had not said anything about her not joining the alliance. After all, he had to know that she had trained about as much as anyone her age and was therefore qualified enough for the alliance. Certainly she was much better than any riffraff tribute from the outer districts.

Much more disheartening had been that her mentors had obviously shared Marten's view; that they would have preferred to work with Helena instead. Did they not see how flawed this view was? Well, she would show them! She would impress the audience with her training scores and her dazzling appearance at the interview. So much, that sponsors would be contacting Ruby in droves to sign specific deals just for her. Money to help her once the alliance broke apart and they all went their separate ways.

Truth be told, Marten's distance worried Tourmaline more than she cared to admit. What if the others picked up on this? Their allies from Districts 2 and 4? No, she had to make sure that they thought nothing more of it than that they were just two competitive tributes from the same district; that his distance was only founded on the fact that there could be only one victor in the end. And wouldn't the other's know this truth as well and also keep a certain distance from their district partners as well as their allies overall? It would work out, Tourmaline tried to convince her as she got ready for the first day of training. She just had to ooze self-confidence. Self-confidence was the key. Show weakness and they would crush you.

As such she made sure to stand close to the others during the initial speech of the head trainer. Nobody told her to get lost, so she was safe. No, she shouldn't be thinking this way, she reminded herself. Indeed she shouldn't waste time on such thoughts, just get on with scaring some tributes. As she looked at the other tributes of their alliance, Tourmaline realized that even though well trained overall, they all would have some specialty.

Like Abelia from District 2, who went for the survival stations even if this had her being mocked by the rest of them – Tourmaline made sure that her jeers could be heard among the others, though not so loud as to think she was vying for the lead position. No, leader was not for her. Even though the leader would most definitely belong to the alliance, trying for leadership would most likely rile up Marten and then he would get really competitive, perhaps even going so far as to convince the others that they had better start their own alliance without her. So, if she wanted to belong, be part of the alliance, she couldn't aim for leadership. And Tourmaline knew that she would need the alliance to make it through the first few days in the arena, when there were still so many tributes about that deaths did not only come at the hands of their alliance, but actually any two tributes meeting could result in a fight with only one survivor. But the thought of Marten becoming the leader likewise made her pause. No, she had to ensure that someone else got the lead position. Though luckily it looked like both Connor and Marinus were eyeing that spot, so she would simply support whoever she thought was better suited.

Back to the point of specialties, Tourmaline began to wonder what her own specialty should be. She lacked that extra encouragement the trainers at home gave the potential volunteers to see them get even better with this weapon or that. All she had was a well-rounded, but compared to her allies most likely only basic training in weapons. She couldn't throw a spear like Rufa was currently demonstrating, or knives like Connor. Swords were even worse for her. In fact, the only weapon she felt comfortable with was the bolas. This stemmed back from the time when she had not yet been this neglected by the trainers... Early on, all kids were trained in athletics almost the same as the trainers felt that even the not so pretty ones should have healthy bodies. At the age of ten, defensive weapons were added to the training and as some children changed distinctively enough with the onset of puberty to change their status from ugly duckling to beautiful swan, trainers at that stage were still willing to encourage talent even in the lesser ones. Only at fourteen the offensive weapons were added and by then it was clear enough who would end up in the tributes class and who not.

Well, Tourmaline had never been one to leave the ugly duckling caste, but hoping to impress her peers and gain their acceptance when they were younger and more equal had practiced hard at what most of them found a truly difficult weapon to master: the bolas. But as they were defensive weapons, these were only good for catching things – or tributes – not for ultimately killing them.

A sly look entered her face, as she began to realize that maybe a defensive weapon could after all be her specialty. If a running tribute was felled, it should be that much easier for her allies to take them out. Or even for her to finish the tribute with a knife once the alliance was over. The question was: Should she try and keep those skills a secret or not? Only showing it in her private session so as to assure the addition of bolas to the weapon stash in the Cornucopia? But no, secret skills only worked for tributes without allies. Allies would see each other's skills latest in the arena. So she might as well show now that she wasn't there just because she was a District 1 tribute and tradition dictated it. It would in fact even help her cement her position in the alliance if she showed some decent skills. Of course it had been a while since she last had handled the bolas and so was quite aware that her muscles would take a few tries to remember.

As unobtrusively as possible she went to the edge of the throwing range, well apart from her allies from District 4, and requested a set of bolas from the trainer. Holding the star-knot in hand and getting used to the weight of the balls, she then took her stance, stilled the weapon, swung it up in an arc over her head and let go of it. With a thud it hit the target, but didn't wrap around it properly, instead falling uselessly to the ground. Just as she had expected.

Glancing over to her allies, she was glad to find their attention drawn to the less than stellar performance of the boy from District 6. She retrieved her weapon and repeated the throw. It was better than before, with actually a hint of the ropes trying to wrap themselves around the target, but ultimately the balls slid down to the ground.

It took her five throws before it wrapped around properly the way it had done back when she used to train with the weapon nearly every day. And after another three throws she was constantly wrapping it around exactly where she intended it to be. Tourmaline smiled with proud satisfaction. She knew she should probably head over to the next station and show off some skills there, but was reluctant to leave her favourite weapon just now. If she left the station, she wouldn't get her hands on it again till launch day, as it made no sense to repeat stations in their overall quest of intimidating the other tributes. So with a small shrug she decided to get in a few more throws, work a little on angles and stances.

Lunch came around and if any of her allies disapproved of her actions of the morning, they didn't it. But perhaps they were all too busy watching Connor and Marinus battling with words, trying to get one over the other in their quest for leadership. It was really amusing and fun to back up the best stories. It was entertaining, especially when Marinus got Connor to agree with him. Honestly, Tourmaline couldn't care less if what he had told them was true or not, it made for a good story, a good argument to get across and that was all that counted.

The afternoon she spent at the archery station. She felt she was doing okay there; the bow gave her better control at aiming than when she was throwing weapons with her free hand. Again she spent the whole time with the one weapon instead of showing off more, but she felt it better to only show those weapons she was comfortable with rather than embarrass the alliance by exhibiting mediocre or worse skills. As such, swords were to be avoided at all costs.

Dinner was a silent affair, at least for Tourmaline. The trip on the train had shown her how little support she could expect from the mentors, so it was only Alopex asking Marten about his day, but Ruby never made the same inquiry of her. It didn't matter, Tourmaline told herself. They couldn't understand as they all had lived and played the system and in case of their mentors were still doing so. They saw no need for change. They had always belonged. Well, they would see the difference once she won. Still, it hurt that even now they were making her feel that she was not one of them.

The next day she was surprised that Connor had managed to surmount the obstacle of Marinus' supposed leadership with this clever plan of his. And as she still was keeping up with her plan of preventing Marten from claiming the top spot, she found herself agreeing to accompany Abelia to the insect station. There was only one flaw in Connor's and maybe Abelia's plan. Insects were gross, they looked like tiny monsters and even the pictures of them made Tourmaline's skin itch. No way would she be memorizing these horrors as she never ever would eat them. Why hadn't Abelia said plants? Why insects? No, she would not do it. She would rather go and practice with some light spears. Those might actually give her a real meal in terms of fish, whereas with those crawling nasties she'd have to eat who knows how many... All of them crawling in her stomach... With a shudder she left for the spear station.

As she worked with the light spears – her skills being decent at best, but well, it couldn't hurt to get some practice in, not that the distraction from the two nuisances helped – she realized one thing though: She had so far disregarded her best weapon. All the physical weapons must have made her lose focus or else she would have realized a lot earlier that her mind, her cunning was her strongest weapon. It had, after all, gotten her into the games. And it should also be the thing she trusted most to get her through those very games and back home as victor. She remembered how she had fleetingly thought yesterday of using the bolas to bring down tributes and then finish them with a knife. Why hadn't she pursued that thought? It was most likely her only chance to bring down her own allies eventually. And if she didn't want to eat insects, she'd better bring them down as long as they still had some provisions with them she could then claim from their cold hands.

The problem however was that the bolas would only tie up either legs or arms to the body. Tying up the legs prevented them from fleeing so was more important, but her allies would not be stunned into inaction by this. They would use those seconds it would take her to get within killing range to undo the bolas – they would after all be well equipped with their favourite weapon plus a knife in addition most likely – and be ready for a fight. No, she needed to take them down both legs and hands... Either by getting proficient enough with these spears to kill them before they undid the bolas, or by throwing a second set of bolas in swift succession to tie them up completely. The latter was actually preferable as it would prevent them from damaging her precious bolas with a knife when hurriedly trying to cut them off. But would the gamemakers be so generous as to give her two sets of bolas? Most likely not.

So she would have to craft her own bolas. Picturing the bolas in her head she knew she wouldn't need much to do this. Just a bit of rope. Stones for the weights she would most likely be able to find in the arena. And rope would certainly be provided by the gamemakers. There always was more than enough rope in the Cornucopia. But which knots to use? Knots had never been part of the training back home. So it would have to be the knot-tying station for her this afternoon.

Unfortunately Rufa had already announced her intention to be their back-up for this particular skill. Why hadn't she thought earlier of planning? Tourmaline chastised herself. Then she could have claimed the knots. Now she knew that on top of her allies being less than pleased about her failing to learn about the crawling horrors – it was hard to miss their looks –, they would also be irritated that she too checked out the knot-tying station. Well, it couldn't be helped. Perhaps they wouldn't really notice, being too busy themselves with their own training? Just to make sure, she would first go to the water bottle station and get that one out of the way before learning all there was about the knots. And tomorrow she would practice throwing two sets of bolas in fast succession. Latest when they saw her fashion her second set of bolas in the arena and bring down tributes with them, her allies would understand that her time really was more wisely spent on learning knots than insects. Then they would look at her admiringly... just as her mentor would finally realize that she was the true tribute... just as the others back home would see that she belonged.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Bohemia sat with the other Gamemakers on the balcony, appearing to all the world as if she was feasting with them. Yet if one looked close enough, one could have seen that she had yet to touch the food on her plate and that she sat as far away from the others as possible without drawing attention to her. She was looking intently at the tributes below and making scribbles on her notepad, all the while muttering comments to herself. The others around her ignored her, but she preferred it to being dragged into a conversation with them. Bohemia was well aware that she was not well liked among her colleagues. However, she was a wiz at camera programming so she was quite secure of her post.

The reason she was not so well liked was that she loved betting and she had an uncanny ability to peg tributes right, when it came to matching training scores to actual game outcomes. Of course the gamemakers could not place bets with the official betting agents as it would have been too easy for them to influence the games accordingly. But among themselves and as long as no plain money was involved, it was all fair game. As such Bohemia would state her scores, which often deviated enough from the other scores to warrant a discussion, and then graciously retract her suggestion and vote for the most popular score if the one who opposed her score the loudest entered into a bet with her. The wager could be a dinner or tickets to one of the better concerts, nothing which would arouse suspicion. But given how often she won her bets it annoyed her colleagues to no end, yet as they didn't want to spend all night in discussion, Bohemia usually got her bets.

Right now she was focussing on the tributes from the Big Alliance. The girls were something different this year. The boys she had easily dismissed, they were not worth a bet. With the girl from District 2 she would actually have to wait till the private session to make her decision, but the other two... Adding up quickly the skills scores the girls would be entitled to so far, she smirked.

Yes, the girl from District 1 would definitely get her a bet. The skills score would net her a Seven, which for a District 1 tribute was a bit low, so Bohemia was pretty sure that the others would lean towards awarding her an extra point for political reasons. So if she went for a Six, based on how some of the alliance were looking at the girl... Yes, those looks meant something. Okay, maybe it wasn't fair to judge the girl by how her allies treated her, but it showed a severe lack of skills in terms of strategy, so in her eyes warranted the negative political point.

But the girl from District 4... There she was not sure if she could get her bet. Bohemia noticed her watching the other tributes closely, which spoke for strategic thinking. Even if she didn't show it in her private session, it would be something Bohemia would base a score on which was one point higher than her actual skills sum. But she couldn't count on her colleagues lowering the score. Actually there was not much reason for it, even if she was a year younger than the usual volunteer from District 4. It was not enough to make them think her having lower chances than the rest of the alliance. And there was not enough in the girl for Bohemia to raise her count by two whole points. No, there would be not bet for her there.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	24. Chapter 22 - Training: Realization

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 22: Training – It's all about realization**

 _Alopex Logan, Mentor, D1_

Alopex sighed. Another day of trying to get sponsor deals signed was over. He knew he was actually lucky to already have sponsors interested in Marten, simply because he was the strong tribute from District 1 everyone expected. He had shown lots of self-confidence during the Reaping and the parade, and from what Alopex had learned from the tribute he was mentoring, he promised to back this up the next day with the very training score one expected of him. Other mentors were not that lucky, having actually to wait for the training scores in hopes they were good enough to attract sponsors. Therefore the lounge had not been as busy as it would be on interview day when all mentors would try to make the most of those hours the tributes spent with the prep-teams and stylists. Or as busy as it would be on the morning of launch day, when they would try to reap the rewards of an outstanding interview impression. Still Alopex just now envied those mentors who had nothing else to do these past two days than sip coffee in the mentors' lounge and trade gossip. Sponsors were after all Capitolites and as such exhausting.

As he rounded the corner on his way to the elevator, he ran into one of those mentors he had just envied: Blight, from District 7. Alopex knew he was actually a decent chap, but that he thought it of no real use to grace the sponsors' lounge before his tributes had shown their worth. Often, if his tributes didn't even rack up as much as a seven in training, he would actually wait for them to survive the bloodbath and show some real skills in the arena, before he would try to get them sponsor money. Yes, it was risky leaving the mentors' lounge then, but apparently he usually worked out a deal with some of the other mentors to watch the tributes for him if their own tributes were already out of the games and alert him, if he was needed to send something. Well, depending on the girl's skills, he might see Blight in the sponsors' lounge soon.

"How's the wait for the training scores?" he asked politely.

Blight shrugged. "What's the sponsors' general mood this year? Are they hoping for an underdog again after last year?"

Alopex pondered this for a moment. Then he shook his head. "No, not really. But it's also not like they absolutely believe in that one of ours will win this time. They are comparatively balanced this year." Remembering that Blight also had to care for a thirteen-year-old, he added: "I'm sorry to say though; there are no record-hunters either."

Blight shrugged. "I hadn't counted on that. Wish I could get reliable tributes like you do. I would even take that girl of yours, who refused the volunteer. At least she has a few more years of experience. Jace on the other hand... if they awarded training scores on dreams and arrogance he would be top, but reality doesn't work like this. Guess what, I even heard him say that he thought himself good enough for that alliance of yours."

Alopex' eyes widened with amusement. "Good to know. He'd be the third to annoy my tribute. There are already two boys, who do nothing but disrupt other tributes' training. If it was of any use, I'd file a complaint against them, but well... there's always the arena waiting for them. As for Jace... guess it would be asking too much to let him know, he'd really be putting himself in danger, if he travels down that path?"

"Don't think he would really listen to me. He might deep down acknowledge the truth of my words, but he also knows that if he were part of your alliance, he would at least make it out of Bloodbath alive."

"Only to be sacrificed when the others thought it the opportune moment? I'd rather not see that happen. Would cast a bad light on my tribute. Not that I see your boy being invited into the alliance to begin with. He has better chances taking flight after the gong."

"You know this, I know this, but it's not us in the arena, it's them."

* * *

 _Marten Cooper, D1, 18Y_

Something was not right with Tourmaline and it bothered Marten a lot that he did not know what it was. Of course they had asked her on the train why she had refused the volunteer and she had given them this grand speech of changing the system, to give ugly ducklings a chance and such. Which was all nice and good, but it still rang false in Marten's ears. He remembered his brother's intention to change the system for his own son by giving him encouragement to do well in the classes outside training so that he would have a better start in life after school. Because that was where the system needed to be changed, not when it came to being a tribute in these games. Yes, it had been Marten's goal all those years, and winning the games still was, but he was also aware that to a large part it was because he had been taught to think that way from early on. That, had he not succeeded at becoming this year's volunteer, he would now most likely look for some low-level, low-paying job. It was the life after school, once they were past Reaping-age that counted. Not before, like Tourmaline seemed to believe.

But there was more to it, Marten sensed. When Tourmaline had not gotten the approval from the mentors for her stance, she had become quiet. One could have believed that she had become thoughtful, perhaps even regretting her actions, if not for the tightness around her jaw which told plain enough that she was still convinced of her chosen path.

But it had not been till the first morning in their suite that Marten had been able to put the puzzle together. He, like so many tributes before and after him, had just pushed random buttons in the shower stall, as the labels in their fanciful Capitol scrawl were too complicated to read. As such he had ended up with the doubtful mix of some fruity soap scent and some heavy musk lotion scent. Not that he cared much; he knew he would soon be sweating all scent away during training. Tourmaline however had sniffed at him disdainfully. "Guess reading this early in the morning isn't your forte."

"As if anyone could read those scribbles," he had groused.

She had just raised her eyebrows. "I can. But then, I've been helping with those name slips for the Reaping, and it's just the same script."

Sudden flashes of her calm behaviour during the Reaping zipped through his mind. It dawned on him, that she must have planned to refuse the volunteer. But how would she have known that she would get the chance to refuse Helena? Luckily Tourmaline had sauntered ahead of him into the dining room, or else she would have seen that he knew by the way his eyes widened: She had swapped the regular slips with those bearing only her name! She had cheated her way into the games! As for her grand speech of wanting to change the system of their district, Marten believed this now less than ever. Cheating was no foundation for changes.

Everything in him screamed to confront her with his newfound information, or tell the mentors, but at the same time he knew he would achieve nothing by doing so. Tourmaline wouldn't be removed from the games; to the Capitol it didn't matter who was the tribute. And the mentors had already shown that they didn't care much for Tourmaline, all because she had refused the volunteer, so their knowing the truth wouldn't change anything either. But then again, the mentors were used to working with tributes, who had all the extra training of the beautiful, had all the natural grace and charm to impress the audience with during the interview. Tourmaline had none of this, so why bother? Yes, they would make the token effort, as was expected of them, but he would be their priority, Marten instinctively knew. Maybe he should even be glad that Tourmaline had cheated her way into the games. This way he had one less tribute to worry about as his current district partner couldn't be real competition.

Yet it galled him how Tourmaline took it for granted that she would be part of their alliance. The way she made sure to stand close to the rest of them during the head trainer's speech, the haughty glance in her eyes... Did she really believe she belonged to them, was one of them? None of the others had that look. Yes, they stood together, but at the same time they were eyeing each other carefully, judging. Even Rufa, who was one year short of the usual volunteer age, had that look. That look, which meant that she was aware that the alliance was only a temporary thing. And Rufa also had a look of uncertainty, of not knowing if she would really be accepted exactly because of the year she lacked. Marten felt himself give her an almost imperceptible smile and tiny nod, much as he had done with her district partner and the two from District 2, acknowledging her as ally. Tourmaline by contrast was all brazen cheerfulness, as if this was some school picnic. Yet the others seemed to accept her. Perhaps because they thought she might be at least decent enough skill-wise that they didn't need to take on one from the outer districts. But then again, they didn't know of Tourmaline's treachery. Well, he would watch the girl and see if she could keep up with them and might be worth keeping around at least for a little while, or if he had to convince the others that they needed to replace her.

Intent of working off some of the frustrations, he headed for the mace station. The spiked balls were heavy enough to stretch his muscles pleasantly, and swinging them with precision required concentration. Just what he needed.

He smirked at the thin girl from District 12 who staggered under the weight of the mace she had picked. Marten knew what she was doing, but he also knew that she was failing. To impress someone, to tell them that you were not easy pickings meant also to know your own limits.

It took him no more than thirty minutes with the mace to feel like himself again. Looking around to decide which station to pick next, he saw his district partner practice with the bolas. She was not too bad at it. It was only a defensive weapon, but at least she had one skill, which might be useful to them. And she wasn't goofing around as he had almost expected her to do given the attitude she had displayed earlier.

Picking hand-to-hand combat next, Marten soon felt that his earlier prediction about his weird scent mix was becoming true – by lunchtime nobody would be able to say which soap or lotion he had accidentally used this morning. Which again returned his thoughts to Tourmaline. Really, she shouldn't be getting to him this much. But instead of trying to get the lead spot, he found himself watching her, looking for signs that she would cheat on them, the alliance, much like she had cheated her way into the games.

Knowing that he should at least do his part in intimidating the other tributes, Marten spent the afternoon at the throwing range. Knives first, then spears. Only to have two of his spears taken from the target by the boy from District 3. Enraged he sprinted after the boy, accompanied by Marinus. The scene at the shelter station would have been funny, albeit annoying, he had to admit, had it not been this close to the games. Though Marten knew he was perhaps one of the best prepared tributes and as such perhaps one of the most relaxed, even he could feel the underlying tension, which wanted him to hand out retribution right then and there.

Maybe it ultimately would be better for those two if he actually had been allowed to act on that inclination, as now he was forced to let it stew for another couple of days and then vent it all in the arena. And that could be really nasty then. Had he been allowed to pay them back right then and there, he would have only set out to humiliate them. In the arena he would probably first try to humiliate them for what they had done during training and then swiftly kill them, because they needed to be taken out for him to win. Which, in combination, would be most likely rather messy.

Luckily his allies seemed to share his view, so he wouldn't appear as a monster to the audience. Because deep down Marten realized that as much as the audience – and the sponsors – liked a good show, a good hunt and killing in these games, too much of it would make him look deranged and cost him support. But if the group as whole did this, well, a mess divided by six made a lot less mess per ally.

Not wanting to return to the throwing range, he instead decided to display some muscles at the climbing station. He had already shown how good he was at hand-to-hand combat, but nothing really emphasised the play of the muscles, his real strength, the way it did when he was pulling up his total weight while climbing. Just before the end of this day's session though, he did a quick stop by the water bottle station. As such these were actually the first thing he mentioned to Alopex and Ruby when they asked about his training during dinner.

"If what you say is true, Abelia was right to let you all know that you need to learn about them. Might be that the water bottles will be the most valuable things you get in the Cornucopia in the long run. If you find yourself in a situation where you can just grab one thing, say because the Cornucopia is going up in flames or something, don't bother with any weapons, take the bottles," Ruby advised him.

Alopex nodded. "Any arena provides plenty of material from which to fashion weapons. A sharpened stick, a rugged stone, some scrap metal – these all make good improvised weapons. But none of these can help you recreate the water bottles. And sending you a new one might cost about all sponsor money we have. Same as sending water to you frequently might do."

Marten agreed. What the mentors said made sense and he knew that water was crucial to survival. Therefore he would be stupid to risk all the sponsor money just to see the bottle replaced, when he might as well need that same money for medicine for example.

He then told them about his run-in with the two boys who stole his spears to prop up some shelter. "Not only was it irritating to no end, it disrupted my mindset so much that I couldn't just go back to throwing spears. And don't say that I have to deal with such disruptions in the arena as well," Marten added, holding up his hands to prevent any unnecessary comments from his mentors. "In the arena I can retaliate immediately. Here, I was forced to back away, let those boys be. I was expected to let it slide and just resume training as if nothing had happened. But that's not how training works. Training has rules, just like the games have no rules. Except for the sixty second wait and the last one standing wins."

"How bad was it?" asked Alopex. "We could file a complaint with the trainers if it is really disruptive..."

"But shouldn't the trainers realize this themselves and act without you filing a complaint?" Marten queried. "And how likely is it that they act because of a complaint if they saw no need to do so on their own? And last but not least: Wouldn't it make us look like cry-babies if the mentors from our district file a complaint?"

"We could talk with the other mentors from the alliance first thing tomorrow morning," Ruby suggested. "Then it might be a joint complaint. Though I fear you are right. The trainers won't really act unless it's outrageously disruptive, simply because they have to appear unprejudiced. So acting on a complaint might have other mentors complain that they are favouring you."

The second day provided a difference as with Connor's plan Marten would be really learning something new. When he heard that Tourmaline would be accompanying Abelia, he swiftly offered to be their back-up for edible plants. Simply because that station was next to the insect station and even if it appeared that his district partner currently was doing everything one expected of her in terms of being a reliable ally, he knew that hers was not an attitude to really consider bugs worth learning. So he wanted to keep an eye on her and see if she really had it in her to be one of them or if she was only grand words and no action and as such would let them down at the first opportunity.

He had barely gotten five slides into the edible plants program, when he saw his all fears confirmed: Tourmaline quit the insect station in a huff and with an air of superiority. Shaking his head his eyes followed her to the spear throwing station and he didn't really try to suppress the smirk that grew on his lips, when he saw the two annoying boys from the previous day pay her their special attention.

Marten finished the plant program, repeated it a second time to make sure he remembered them correctly and then decided to pick up weapons again, simply to take out some of the frustrations he felt over Tourmaline. For warm-up he would do some sword exercises before he would continue where he had left off the day before and throw some axes. Partly to get a feel of the Capitol provided weapons, but more importantly to show those tributes from District 7 that he wouldn't hesitate using their favourite weapons against them. However, he had barely thrown the weapon once – hitting the target well enough to make it fatally count had it been a tribute, when he found himself accosted by a little boy, whose number on the training shirt declared him to be from the wood district.

"You really should leave these to us," the boy said with an arrogance as if he was actually towering over Marten. "Everybody knows that District Seven is the only district who sends tributes with decent axe throwing skills. Or hatchet throwing for this matter."

Marten raised his eyebrows and simply threw a pointed look at the target. "Decent or not, that throw would have killed you. I take it that's decent enough."

"I could do much better," the boy said with certainty. "In fact, you really should consider taking me on as ally."

Marten stared at the other tribute incredulously. Not even if they were replacing Tourmaline – something he had begun seriously contemplating – would he consider taking on a what? Thirteen-year-old if he remembered correctly? "Come back in five years and I might reconsider," he growled, sarcasm lacing his voice.

"Ha, ha, very funny!" The boy replied while turning around and walking away, hurt plainly audible, yet Marten couldn't find it in himself to be sorry for his choice of words. The boy simply had to face the truth – he was really about five years too young to have a chance in these games.

As Marten collected the axe to throw again, something the boy had said however lingered with him. It was true, those tributes from District 7 usually were quite good with axe or hatchet. And wasn't his district partner of an age to be an interesting replacement for Tourmaline? Looking around, he saw the girl doing quite an impressive performance at the hand-to-hand combat station. Yes, if he got the others to agree, she might do well for replacement.

Lunch however put an end to this idea, as he saw the girl talking animatedly do the boys from Districts 6 and 10. Ah, well, he thought, you can't have it all. They simply would have to do with only five tributes to their alliance.

* * *

 _Jace Swallow, D7, 13Y_

The second day of training had come to an end and Jace was as close to devastated as he would ever admit being to himself. No matter what he tried, he was rebuffed. As such it was with a frustrated growl that he stormed through the living room of their suite, intent on getting under the shower and remaining there for as long as they would let him. Maybe he could even drown there; it would certainly solve his problems.

Alas, drowning was not easy, especially when one had only a shower with which to accomplish that. Which might be the exact reason the tributes' rooms only had showers and no bath tubs to begin with... Faintly he heard Blight remind him that it was time for dinner, yet Jace remained under the warm spray of water. After all, dinner didn't matter much. He was as good as dead. He might not even live long enough to experience what gave the games their name: hunger.

Jace didn't know how long he had stood under the shower, when suddenly a strong hand reached into the stall and turned off the water.

"I've heard that water might be a rare commodity in the upcoming games, but I don't think you can up your chances by trying to soak up all that water in the shower," Blight said gruffly but kindly.

Jace grimaced, but stepped out of the stall anyway and let the fancy Capitol technology of the bathroom dry him. Blight had exited the bathroom again, attempting to give him some privacy, though Jace could still hear his mentor in the bedroom, making it clear that he wouldn't leave. At least not till they had talked. For all that they both knew that he really didn't have a chance, Jace had to give it to Blight: He tried to do his best by him.

Shrugging on the loose pyjamas someone – maybe Blight, maybe an Avox – had placed on the warming rack, he joined his mentor in the bedroom. Blight was already sitting on the bed, a bowl of ice cream in hands. When he saw Jace, he gestured towards the tray with every unhealthy snack imaginable. "You might not have wanted dinner, but I thought you might be in mood for some ice cream or cake."

Jace couldn't help but give his mentor a small smile, when he also noticed a bowl of crispy triangles with different dips beside it. Blight might prefer ice cream, he liked those spicy triangles better and he appreciated Blight's attention to his preferences to have ordered those as well. Joining his mentor on the bed, he was soon munching away.

"Bad day?" Blight began their talk.

"Just like yesterday," Jace admitted bitterly. "I tried to find allies, but no such luck."

"Whom did you try?" Blight asked. Yesterday they had only touched that topic lightly, focussing more on what Jace had learned during the day, with the former victor giving him encouragement for the second day.

"Yesterday it was the girl from District Ten," Jace said, scrunching up his face with disgust as he remembered the short conversation. "I could sense the same kind of anger in her that I felt when I got reaped. That it was all so unfair. An anger she was trying to convert into fierceness, which definitely will help in the arena. So what would be more natural than two like-minded people joining up? Plus I could see that she was strong, though she had absolutely no weapon skills. In that we would have complemented one another. But she said she was already in an alliance, an exclusive one of only two people. And then she had the gall to advise me to try and form a little alliance!" Jace scoffed. "As if that would accomplish anything other than herd the easy pickings together for the Careers to off."

"I can understand you point of view for wanting an older ally," Blight said. "But I can also understand hers." Raising his hand slightly, to keep Jace from interrupting, he continued: "I know... She is only two years older than you, which is not that huge a difference to warrant her comment on forming a little alliance. But from what I heard in the mentors' lounge, her ally is the girl from District Three, who at seventeen might feel that you at thirteen would be too young as ally for her. So the girl from District Ten might simply have felt that even if she might consider you, her ally wouldn't."

"Believe me, the girl wasn't considering her ally in the least," Jace countered. "She isn't the type of girl who first thinks of her ally and only then of herself."

"Then you even might be better off without her. A selfish ally is no real ally," Blight reasoned. "So, who did you try next?"

Scowling, Jace flicked away some crumbs, before he muttered: "This morning, the Career alliance."

Blight shook his head slightly. "I already guessed as much," he eventually said. "And while they might have taken on tributes from our district occasionally in the past, like they did two years ago, they never pick anyone below the age of fifteen. You just might have saved yourself the effort."

"Why does everyone think that age is of such an importance?" Jace groused. "I can handle the hatchet and the axe as well as a fifteen-year-old tribute from our district. As it is, they are not even giving me a chance!"

"It's not so much the age, more the muscles our tributes usually have gained by the age of fifteen. Even the menial jobs like reforesting mean lugging the spade around half of the day, carrying seedlings and such. You have not even hit your growth spurt. So the Careers look at you and know that you will never be able to overwhelm a tribute physically. Okay, maybe the girls from Districts Five and Nine, but that's it. And those two the Careers immediately discounted." Blight explained. "As such it doesn't matter much to them how good you are with your chosen weapons. They couldn't even leave you behind to guard their stash from the Cornucopia, as it would only invite about every tribute older than you not to mention other alliances to come and steal the stuff."

It hurt, but even Jace had to admit that it was the truth so he didn't hold the words against his mentor. "Yet why do they have to be so hurtful in their refusals? What about a polite 'thanks, but not thanks'?"

Blight smirked. "Would you have accepted a polite refusal? Or would you have interpreted as a 'Maybe, try and make me change my mind'?"

Jace scowled. He hated it when others were always right. "I even approached the boys from Districts Three and Eleven. They are even closer to me age-wise than the girl from District Ten, so you'd think they'd give me a chance. Yet, they, too, didn't take me serious. That's as close as I could get to even attempting to form a 'little alliance' unless you now tell me to approach Wheezy and the Princess."

"Wheezy and Princess?" Blight asked amused.

"You know, the girl from District Nine, who wheezes with every breath, and the girl from District Five who looks like she's been everybody's darling her whole life and even now managed to somehow get her district partner to stick together with her." Jace elaborated.

Blight smiled, then shook his head. "No, I won't tell you to approach either of them. Allies should complement each other as you know and I doubt the girl from District Nine could add anything worthwhile to an alliance, not with her lung problems. As for the girl from District Five, while I'm happy for her that her district partner sticks together with her, I doubt he would be willing to take on another tribute as young as you, so while it might get you the older ally you have been looking for, I don't think you should even bother trying."

"I wonder what made the boy tribute stick to his district partner."

"You rather wonder if whatever it is would work for you as well and have Coralee help you through the first day in the arena," Blight corrected.

"Maybe," Jace mumbled, though he knew that his own attitude during the train ride had killed whichever tiny chance he had had in this respect. But Coralee was a mop girl, what skills could she have to help him? Had she been one of them, one from the woods, he would have tried everything to have her become his ally, most likely with Blight's backing. But as it was he had more or less insulted her to the point where she now ignored him. It also didn't help that while she might not know how to throw a hatchet she was not without skills. But it was all too late for this now. "Might as well step off the platform early," he muttered.

"Oh no, you won't!" Blight said fiercely, putting his hand under Jace's chin and forcing him to look him into the eyes. "You might not have the best chances out there, but I won't have it said that a tribute from the woods took the cowardly way out! Show them that you are as strong as the trees that grow back home, trees that even when cut down are still strong enough to support your back when you sit on the chair made from it, indeed strong enough to support a whole house!"

"And how do you propose I go about it?" Jace asked, sarcasm lacing his voice, despite being taken aback by the passion with which Blight had spoken.

"If nobody wants you as an ally, then no longer seek one yourself. Rely on yourself. Use those sixty seconds on the platform to look at the things littered around the Cornucopia. Locate the water bottle closest to you, no matter which kind it is, and when the gong releases you, grab it and then run away as fast as possible. Ignore the hatchets in the Cornucopia. These are not for you."

"But I'm small, I could weave my way..."

"No!" Blight said firmly. "There'll be six Careers who have longer legs than you have and will reach the Cornucopia before you. They will then have weapons they can throw at you. And trust me, one of those six will get you."

"But how am I supposed to go about in the arena with nothing to defend me with? You said I shouldn't take the coward's way, but isn't running exactly that?"

"Who said that you'll remain without a weapon? I take it you know how an axe or hatchet is made?"

Jace nodded instinctively. Part of their history lessons back home was the history of the tools they used, from the really ancient stone axes to the modern harvesters employed these days in District 7.

"The arena will provide you with what you need. If something is badly missing, I might be able to send it to you. Most likely you'll still have to do some work on it, as perfect items like completed weapons are usually too expensive for most any mentor to send, but it will be something you can use. I recall your token is a bit of whetstone?"

Jace nodded again.

"Then I might be able to send you some scrap metal or so and you provide the shaft. You'll have to sharpen the metal yourself, but you'll get your weapon."

Jace pondered this for a moment, but he couldn't prevent his hopes rising just that little bit. He might actually make it through the first day, even the second... "But... won't even scrap metal which looks pretty useless on first glance, cost sponsor money? Who would sponsor someone like me?"

"Nobody sponsors without a reason. You have to show them you are worth sponsoring. The training score will mean a lot in your case. Same goes for the interview. So tell me, how do you intend to impress the gamemakers during your private session?"

"Throw some hatchets?" Jace had no idea what his mentor was looking for.

"Any other skills? It doesn't have to be something like a scripted scene or such, you can simply walk from station to station you feel comfortable about. But you have to show them more than just hatchet throwing." Blight urged. "Think about it: The Careers don't get their high scores just by raising a sword during their private session and let it stand at that."

Jace hung his head. It dawned on him that excepting the water bottles, he had hardly visited any other station than the hatchet throwing range. He had been completely focussed on watching other tributes, trying to find out whom to approach for an alliance.

"Don't give up. You still have tomorrow morning as private sessions don't begin till after lunch. Pick up a few more survival skills; they don't take that long to learn. Knot tying perhaps? Might come in handy when you craft your own axe, don't you think so?"

Jace nodded. "I'll also go and see about edible plants in case it'll be completely different from the edible plants I know from back home."

Blight smiled at him. "See, you have a good head on your shoulder, you just have to remember to use it. Score more than five points tomorrow and you'll make some people think that maybe there's more to you than can be seen on first glance. They might not contact me directly to sponsor you, but confirm the impression at the interview and we will have those sponsors for you."

"But I have no idea how to do this... confirm the impression," Jace said. "I'm hardly mysterious or fierce." His trademark sarcasm was back.

Blight smirked. "By being contradictory. When people see you, they think your are cute."

Jace scowled. He hated being considered cute.

But his scowl only elicited a light laugh from his mentor. "That's exactly what I mean. We'll dress you up all innocent... Hm..." Blight tapped his lips thoughtfully. "I wonder if I can talk to the stylists to have you dressed up in something similar to one of those fancy school uniforms the expensive private schools here in the Capitol require their pupils to wear. Green of course, to still remind them which District you are from. Then all those parents in the audience will think of you as innocent as their beloved little sons at home."

"And that will get me sponsor money?" Jace asked with raised eyebrows.

"Not the clothes alone. The words. Your sarcasm. Just be yourself with Caesar. If you think he's asking a stupid question, answer him as you would do with me were I to ask the same useless question. It will startle people. And will make Caesar laugh. He appreciates tributes, who are not afraid of speaking their mind. I might even go so far as bet that he'll say something along the lines that there's more to you than a mere glance can tell."

"From your mouth to the sponsors' ears," Jace said. He was still a bit sceptical, but it was at least a plan. And right now any plan was better than the devastation he had felt earlier.

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Tychon was on the opposite end of the gallery with a clear view of the balcony as well as the tributes below. Usually he would sit with his colleagues, but right now their carefree air was too much for him to handle. Yes, they had all expressed sympathy when he had explained his strained looks over the first cup of coffee before they headed here, but none of them could really understand. None of them had a mother dying of the late sequelae of one too many plastic surgeries and fashion follies, with only heavy drugs keeping her pain away. Looks like the medical industry had found yet another way to extort money from them, Tychon thought, remembering the medical bills, which were piling up at home. None of them had a daughter he'd have to admit to a rehab clinic right after the games because she was a kleptomaniac. Not that she had a need to steal anything, he was making good money and her allowance was generous enough. It was for the fun, she had told him. Now he was facing even more medical bills. Not to mention the merchants demanding he pay them back for all the things his daughter had stolen. The only thing, which currently kept him going was the support of his wife and the hope of successful games that would earn them a nice and hefty bonus. As such he wanted to do his best work ever, including impeccable training scores.

Looking down at the tributes, he checked his list for the obvious notes of stations visited first, then began watching individual tributes.

"Seen anything interesting?"

Tychon looked up and saw his old friend Octavius standing next to him. "What, no extra coaching for the new girl today?" He asked, wanting to prevent his colleague ask further questions about his situation at home.

"If the girl didn't catch what I was telling her yesterday, she is hopeless. We all had to learn to swim." Octavius said with a shrug.

"So, do you think she'll catch this?" Tychon inquired and indicated to the boy from District 1, who was currently watching his district partner stalk to the spear throwing range.

"Interesting... what do you think is going on?"

"Real distrust, I think. Or she is strategically trying to keep him from training effectively," Tychon offered.

"Even if it is strategy, she has to expect that he will act on it eventually."

"Which is what makes it so interesting, what makes the Big Alliance for once interesting."

Octavius nodded. Not long afterwards they saw the boy move from the plant station first to the sword station and then to the axe throwing station. Ocatvius groaned. "Puppy alert."

Tychon immediately caught on. He had seen the boy from District 7 watch and even stalk some of the other tributes, occasionally talking to one of them, but apparently never achieving his goal. "He's not really going to..."

Both men groaned. "Really, he should know that the tributes from the Big Alliance never take on puppies." Octavius said.

"Well, maybe he'll have learned by tomorrow? Maybe it's his way to sound out other tributes and learn their strategies? Maybe he'll surprise us in his private session?" Tychon doubted it, but some tributes were like this.

"Don't let Bohemia hear this, or she'll try to goad you into one of those bets of hers," Octavius said.

Tychon laughed hollowly. "Trust me, Bohemia won't do this. Not with me at least. She likes to have her won bets paid on time and she knows that with me she would have to get in a queue. So I can actually oppose her as much as I like."

Octavius grinned and Tychon found himself joining him. Maybe his colleagues weren't so bad if they could still elicit a smile from him, even if they couldn't understand his situation fully.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. And in case you are wondering about the absence of Cashmere and Gloss as mentors: I know that there are wikis out there that have them win the 63rd and 64th games. But this is actually not stated in the books, only that they won two consecutive games and the wikis lack sources to back up their claims. So I chose for them to win the 68th and 69th Hunger Games.


	25. Chapter 23 - Training: Plans

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 23: Training – It's all about plans**

 _Blight Murrill, Mentor, D7_

Having seen his two charges off for the day, Blight once more opted for the mentors' lounge. It would be the last day of quietude in here. Tomorrow, while they all worked with their tributes on the interview presentation, the lounge would be converted into the busy hub, from which they could monitor their tributes in the arena.

Grabbing some coffee, he settled into one of the comfortable chairs, looking idly around him, trying to guess who would have the most annoying story about their tributes this morning. He himself wasn't really part of that competition, as his two charges were behaving more or less the way it could be expected of them, given their age and upbringing.

He nodded a small welcome as Aurora, mentor of District 9 settled into the chair next to his.

"Here again?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered nonchalantly. "You know me; I prefer to wait for the training scores, so that I have at least something in terms of advertisement to work with."

"And here I thought that with the girl her age alone would have you try to get some sponsors earlier."

Blight shook his head. "If the Careers were one tribute short, I might try, as then there was a decent chance that they might go for my tribute as replacement. But that's not the case this year, so no need to waste my time." Others might think age to be enough in terms of advertisement to try and snare some sponsor deals, but Blight had over the past years – it was almost a decade he was now doing his mentoring duties – learned that one actually got much better deals after the training scores were published. Often he could get a deal then which alone was worth more than three deals done on the first day of training for a regular tribute, who just happened to be of an age which had people believe he or she had a chance. So it was actually more time efficient to wait. Plus not hitting the sponsors' lounge gave him at least some downtime between his other Capitol duties. Though thankfully no longer as numerous as in his early years, there were still some engagements the President so thoughtfully arranged for him.

"What about you? Already looking forward to hitting the sponsors' lounge?" he now asked in return, knowing that it was a bit mean of him.

Aurora grimaced. "Not with the lot we have drawn this year."

Blight nodded. Though he himself also had a thirteen-year-old tribute this year, his was at least healthy.

"You know, it's actually cute... On the train, when she heard that the gamemakers had just added some medicine for her on the sponsors' gift list, Kersia told us to not buy any of it. That we should instead use any sponsor money we get on Haden. I'm not sure if she realizes that chances for any sponsor money at all are pretty slim, let alone the equivalent of a dose of that medicine. Yet I didn't have the heart to destroy those innocent beliefs." Aurora sighed.

"Maybe she said it more for Haden's comfort?" Blight offered. They had already covered the boy's disability the previous days.

"Might be," Aurora conceded. "She's actually quite good around him. Once she understood that he's more like a five-year-old than anything else, she's taken it upon herself to act like a big sister to him. She's making sure he's all dressed for training, that he's eating his vegetables at dinner... But I also think that in some ways, he's good for her. She knows her chances of winning are as close to zero as can be, so she knows she won't ever see her family again, and I think she misses them a lot. Having Haden as surrogate brother lessens that pain a bit."

"At least that's something I don't have to worry about with my girl. With Jace, family has yet to come up in conversation, but with Coralee I know she has none, that she's an orphan and doesn't even remember her parents. She also wasn't looking for having a family of her own. She confided in me that if not for the games, she would now be looking for how to get into a Peacekeeper academy."

"Interesting choice for a girl. Though some say that the Peacekeepers are a family of their own."

"Who knows? But if she thinks she's good enough for the Peacekeepers, I'm looking forward to her training score." Blight said with a small smile.

* * *

 _Coralee Lume, D7, 17Y_

Coralee was glad that Blight had not attempted to make her stick around with Jace. Not that she couldn't understand where the boy came from, but she knew a spoilt kid when she saw one. Every once in a while they would get such a kid at the orphanage, and they were always alienating those who tried to help them, making the others lash out and pick on them till they adjusted because the rules of the orphanage eventually got them all back in line. However, with time being the key essence to that process and time not being available now, Coralee had not the least inclination to give Jace a leg up. Blight could do that if he wanted; she had more important things to concentrate on. Like training.

As the tributes began to disperse that first morning, Coralee took a leisurely stroll down the training hall, looking at all the individual stations, trying to come up with a schedule for herself. She knew she had three goals to achieve in those few days: She had to learn anything she didn't know but might require in the arena. She had to get a decent training score so that Blight could get her some sponsors. She had to find allies. And of course they were all connected. Show her skills and she would get a good training score and make people interested in her as ally. But should she advertise her best skills immediately?

Inwardly she shook her head. That was the Career approach and would make her look as if she wanted to be part of them. But one look at the group had told her that this was not a year where they were looking for a substitute. And some of them, like the girl from District 1, displayed the very arrogance she knew she could not deal with for more than a few hours.

No, instead she would concentrate on learning some survival skills today. Picking a station at random, she was soon immersed in learning which of the bugs she usually chased from the houses she cleaned were edible. It didn't really look inviting as food source, but Coralee knew that unless she got lucky with the things she picked up at the beginning of the games, she might well have to rely on the bugs. And that hunger would make them a delicious prospect sooner or later. Still, if possible she would prefer other sources of food. Thankfully she had learned cooking at the orphanage. However, cooking required fire, so this would be her next stop.

"Best you can get is matches, of course," the trainer said.

Coralee nodded. "Yet unfortunately there's no guarantee I get those..."

"Then there's always the age-old method of using flint and metal to get some sparks," the trainer said, knowing full well that usually all backpacks contained either matches or flint. Picking up the materials, he showed her how to coax a spark out of it and direct it to the tinder.

Nodding, Coralee took the offered equipment from the trainer and tried it herself. It was not as easy as it looked, but after a few tries she had the spark and a few tries later the spark even landed on the nest of tinder. Blowing gently, as the trainer had instructed, she soon had a nice fire going.

"I don't think I have to tell you that it would not be prudent to light a fire at night? Even though it might keep you warm..."

"It would tell everyone exactly where I am, I know," Coralee said. "I was more thinking along the line of cooking food, hoping I learn how to catch some..."

"In which case I recommend you check out the trap station sometime. They also show how to fashion fish traps." The trainer suggested.

"Fish..." Coralee smiled. Yes, fish was entirely preferable to eating bugs. So she would definitely check out the trap station. "Back to fire making... just in case I am so unfortunate as to lose my flint or matches... any idea how I could start a fire with just the things I can find in the arena?"

The trainer eyed her with curiosity. It was not often that tributes went further at his station than learning how to make a fire with flint. Knowing however what kind of arena was awaiting the tributes, he refrained from mentioning a fire-drill or fire plough. Instead he pulled out a cylindrical metal contraption, a tad shorter than his forearm.

"This," he said, "is a fire piston. It's basically a cylinder with a piston fit into it. You place a bit of tinder at the bottom of the piston, then compress the air inside the cylinder forcefully and the pressurized oxygen will ignite the tinder." Pulling apart piston and cylinder, he showed her the different components. "The cylinder and piston can be basically any material, the main problem will be that you'll have to make it airtight or else you won't be able to create the pressure required." Handing the parts over to Coralee he watched the tribute examine it.

"It looks pretty straight forward... It could be a hollowed stick with a smaller stick for piston, metal pipe and rod, depending on what I can find..." Coralee commented. "But what about these bits?" She pointed at a black ring going around the piston.

"Those are o-rings. They help with sealing the air. Obviously you'll need to be able to work the piston, so it'll be a bit lose in the cylinder. The o-ring provides the seal required for the pressure, whereas it doesn't come with a resistance too big for you to handle."

"But how likely is it that I'll find o-rings in the arena?" Coralee mused. Then she looked at the trainer, instinctively knowing that while he knew the answer to that question, he would prefer her to come up with her own ideas. "Does it have to be such rings? Or could I use other things as substitute?"

He smiled. "You can use other materials, as long as you remember the purpose. You might find some silicon, rubber or some such things in the arena you can use just as well. If not a perfect ring, you can use a thin strip and wrap it around the piston tightly. Improvisation might indeed be the key in the arena."

Coralee nodded and then proceeded to practice with the fire piston a couple of times. It was even more difficult than the flint, but she persevered, knowing she would feel better if she was not reliant on matches or flint for cooking a meal.

It was already lunch time when she was finally satisfied that she had mastered fire making to the degree she wanted. Thanking the trainer, she headed for the lunch hall, fully intending to learn about fish traps afterwards.

The fish traps again were more difficult than she had anticipated; more than once the perfectly aligned material just clattered apart before she could tie them fast. "Is the shape really that important? How about I just make sure the fish can't escape?" She said a little frustrated.

"You don't want your trap to look like an obstacle or else the fish will swim around it instead of into it," the trainer explained patiently and showed her once more how to hold the bits and pieces with one hand to fix it with the other hand.

"Would that count as into it or around it?" A boy next to Coralee asked and held up a fish trap which was only slightly misshapen.

The trainer looked at it and with a smirk replied: "I'd say it depends on the water... if the sun shines and you have perhaps a couple of leaves swimming on the water, it would create enough light distraction for the trap to work."

"Guess this means, I could do better," the boy said to Coralee with a conspiratorial grin and started to work on another trap, leaving the first one for the trainer to dismantle.

"At least yours would work with the right light," she sighed. "Mine would only work to send the fish to yours..."

The trainer nodded, but then added encouragingly: "You can always use other obstacles to try and make the fish go in a certain direction. Then even a lumpy trap might get you dinner."

"Then I should at least make sure that my traps are sturdy," Coralee said with renewed enthusiasm.

As another tribute required the trainer's attention with some regular traps, Coralee found herself working peacefully side by side with the other boy. Suddenly he said: "You know, the idea of using your trap to guide the fish into mine isn't half that bad. That is, if you don't mind having a fishing partner..."

Coralee eyed him carefully. She remembered having seen him in conversation with the boy from District 6 at lunch, so wondered if his comment was genial or just a matter of small-talk.

"I'm Maarck," he introduced himself.

By instinct, Coralee stated her name as well.

"In case you are wondering, my proposal was genuine. Though I have to confess that in this case Griffin would be part of this as well," he said, indicating that by Griffin he meant his lunch partner who was obviously also his ally.

"You don't really know me, you have seen that I'm crap at building fish traps, and you are offering me a spot in your alliance?" Coralee murmured back, disbelief colouring her voice. "Are you looking for some cannon fodder ally? Because in that case, no, thanks, but no!"

Maarck only smiled. "I'm no Career; I don't look for cannon fodder. I'm just going by a theory Griffin voiced during lunch."

Coralee raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate.

Consequently he explained his ally's theory of counter-balancing the Career alliance. "I'm sure you have lots of skills you have not shown so far, simply because life has given you experience and you can't go through life in the Districts without picking up useful things."

She pondered his words. It was true; she had more skills than he currently knew. "If I recall correctly, we aren't actually enough tributes of the correct age range to really counter balance the other alliance."

"Not quite." Maarck agreed. "But then again, in most games at least one of the Careers dies during the first two days if not already during the bloodbath, so if we all made it that far alive and actually met up to form the alliance, we would match their number."

"But then, we, too, might suffer a loss during the initial fight," Coralee cautioned.

Maarck smiled, having caught her involuntary use of 'we', indicating that she was at least seriously contemplating the invitation. "You can at any time decide to leave without repercussions. So if on the initial meeting after the gong you decide that the alliance was too small for your liking, you could leave."

"And you wouldn't kill me right then and there?"

"No, I don't think so. I know I wouldn't. And Griffin appears to be an honest chap as well. Of course I might find out his true colours one night when he stands over me to murder me in my sleep, but really, I don't think that he'd do this. So I'd guess we'd give you a head-start of at least an hour? But if you want, we can talk about it tomorrow during lunch." Maarck explained.

Coralee nodded. It would be interesting to at least listen to their proposal in detail. "So, what do you think your chances will be of recruiting the other tributes of the proposed age-range?"

Maarck shrugged. "I'll find out tonight if the girl from District Three is worth approaching. During lunch she sat with my district partner, and if they are sticking together, we'll have to do without her. Because Tracey – that's my district partner – is not someone we want to have. Not only that she's too young for Griffin's theory, but she is also nasty."

"And I can see that Griffin is currently speaking to the girl from District Eleven," Coralee said, having sought out the boy from District 6 with her eyes.

"So, what do you say, will you join us for lunch tomorrow?" Maarck asked. "We can discuss where we stand and how to proceed."

"Sure, might as well as not," Coralee said after another moment of hesitation.

They soon parted ways with Maarck leaving for another station, whereas Coralee remained with the fish traps, intent on mastering that skill. No matter whether she joined the counter alliance or not, the skill would come in handy. And since she was already at the appropriate station, she added regular traps to her knowledge as well.

The next day, after an invigorating session with the quarterstaff and hand-to-hand combat, she promptly joined her potential allies for lunch.

"I'm afraid that this will be it," Griffin said apologetically. "Just the three of us."

Maarck confirmed this. "The girl from District Three we can forget, she's with Tracey. Though seriously, someone who considers her an ally might not be right in their head, so we might be better off without her."

Griffin continued and told about his encounter with the girl from District 11. "As such we might actually increase by one more on the third day, which might then also be the number of Careers we are facing."

Coralee was sceptical. "Do you really think she'll show up?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I guess we'll see. The more important question is: Is three enough for you to consider the alliance? Maarck said you were still undecided." The two boys had exchanged quick words in the morning before beginning their individual training.

Considering her options and giving Griffin a long and calculating look, Coralee nodded. "If I get to drop out any time I want, with the hour head-start Maarck mentioned..."

"We can even agree not to go against each other till the next day," Griffin suggested. "Not even the Careers, when they split up, turn against each other instantly. And I prefer to think that we are better than them when it comes to how we treat others."

"Okay, then I'm in," Coralee declared. They briefly discussed each others' skills, trying to see if there was something else they needed, something to round out their overall skills. Coralee was glad to learn from Maarck that there would be no trackerjackers in the arena and intrigued by the water bottles, which she decided to check out for herself in the afternoon. The description of the piston version had her share her experience with the fire piston with her new allies. Eventually she asked: "So, what will be our strategy in the arena? Will we try to hunt down other tributes like the Careers do? Or will we try to decimate the Careers before we go after other tributes?"

"I think it depends on where we can set up a fort," Griffin said, having analysed the careers' strategy as he remembered them from previous games. "The Careers always have a base camp. Something where they can store their stuff, something to return to, where they can regroup, recharge. We'll need our own camp, preferably something that we can easily disguise and defend. With only three we won't be able to have one of us stay behind to protect whatever we might have and think worth protecting. And it would hinder us to always carry everything with us. It's one of the reasons why the Careers are so good at decimating the number of tributes: They don't carry much with them aside from weapons when they go out hunting."

The other two nodded.

"Then, what we should do is keep a perimeter around our camp clear of other tributes. If we allow other tributes close to our camp, an untimely fire could alert the Careers of their location and they might stumble over us. So in this way, we would be decimating the number of tributes..."

Coralee caught on. "And depending on how close to the Careers' base camp ours is, we also would have to take on their alliance. One at a time, I'd think, most likely the one they leave behind as guard?"

Griffin smiled. "You got it. We certainly won't attack the pack as a whole. It would be an insult to them as well as us to do something so stupid."

"Then I propose a toast: To the non-stupid counter alliance!" Maarck said cheerfully, though as not to arouse too much suspicion, he only raised his spoon, which held the last of the soup he had been eating.

* * *

 _Kersia McKenna, D9, 13Y_

The Capitol medicine was really marvellous. When she had been told on the train that the gamemakers would be providing her with some medicine to allow her to breathe easier, Kersia had not known what to think about it. Breathing easier, while in itself nice, would not change anything about her weak lungs. So what use would such medicine ultimately be to her? Such thoughts made it all the easier for her to tell the mentors that they should use whatever sponsor money they had on Haden. Kersia was realistic enough to know that they both had pretty low chances of attracting sponsors, but surely there were those who backed up tributes like them because of political reasons, chance, lost bets or whatever. She didn't really care.

Now however that she had tried the spray for the first time, she realized actually how much of her strength each breath usually cost her. She had not felt so strong for at least a year. Back then, when she had first made the trip to the depot to get the tesserae, she still had been filled with some excitement at the fact that for once she would see something other than home. Yes, she had been exhausted by the time she would be back at their house, but she had been able to drag her little wagon all the way herself. These days, she had already been exhausted by the time she had reached the depot and the way back home had felt endless. For the last two or three trips her brother would meet her along the way and help her with the wagon...

Now, as she looked around the gymnasium she felt as if she could actually walk around and maybe try out some of the stations. Nothing too strenuous of course, but perhaps one or two of the survival stations... At least it would be so much better than only sitting around, doing nothing really but wait.

But first she had to make sure Haden was set up for the morning. The boy was looking around with the curious mix of excitement and fear that only small children manage convincingly. "Look," he said to her, tugging at her shirt, never minding that he was actually a good head taller than her. "The rats..."

Kersia knew what he meant, so nodded carefully. "Yes, but remember, you can only do something about them when they show their rat-like selves. And this will not happen till we are someplace else."

"Oh..." Haden struggled to remember. They had told him on the train what would happen. "Yes, only after I talk with the man on the stage. Then the next morning. After the gong, right?"

Kersia nodded approvingly. "That is right, you got it!" She cheered. "But would you like to try out the knives they have here in the meantime? As you don't have your own knife with you, you'll have to use some other knife and you would want to find out how good they are for killing rats, wouldn't you?"

Haden nodded and Kersia took her district partner over to the knife throwing station. Luckily the others were all ignoring them and not making rude comments, for which she was glad. She requested a set of knives from the trainer, who eyed her a bit warily, but nonetheless complied. "Okay Haden, do you remember, when you practiced this first with your dad? You didn't throw at rats first, did you?"

Haden shook his head. "Dad had a sack filled with old things and he had painted a rat on it."

"See those targets over there?" Kersia pointed out. "These are like the sack at home. And see those black circles? Those are the rats."

"But they don't look like rats," Haden said bewildered.

"I know," Kersia explained, "but what if some other kid here is good at hunting squirrels or snakes? Wouldn't they want to have squirrels or snakes painted on the target like you want rats? So instead of having all different targets, the trainers here simply opted for black circles."

"Okay..." Haden acquiesced. He took one of the knives and after weighing it for a moment, flicked it towards the target.

Kersia smiled at the astonishment the trainer clearly exhibited at the surety with which Haden handled the weapon and though it missed the target, having picked up on how the girl had explained things to him, was soon encouraging him to simply get used to the new knives.

"Thank you," Kersia told the trainer, once it was obvious that Haden was lost in his own world of training.

"No, thank you," the trainer returned the compliment. "I wouldn't have known how to treat him without you."

The girl smiled. "In this case we have to thank his dad. He apparently approached our mentors and let them know how to best handle his son. Feel free however to spread it among the other trainers. I would like Haden to feel as safe as possible here, perhaps even happy. It doesn't take much to make him happy."

The trainer nodded. "Sure, I'll do this."

"Great! Do you think you could keep an eye on him till lunch? I'd like to check out some survival stations."

Again the trainer nodded and Kersia went over to the nearest survival station, which happened to be one focussing on camouflage.

"The aim of camouflage is to blend in with your environment. You can be assured that while serviceable and actually essential for survival, the clothes you get initially will have you rather stand out in the arena than conceal you. So camouflage is actually a great skill to know," the trainer explained.

Kersia nodded. She knew as much from home. Back when she had been healthy, her favourite shirt had been bright red. But when she later tried to be as unnoticeable to her mother as possible, she learned to avoid that shirt at all costs as it made her stand out even in the darkest corner of their home.

"The longer you are in the arena, the more your clothes will resemble your surroundings. If it is an arena with rich earth and lots of vegetation, your chances are good for acquiring grass stains, mud blotches, even berry juice stains and such, which will help you to blend in. Not to mention the twigs and leaves that get caught in your hair. If the arena is drier, dust will cover your clothes soon enough. You can of course always help to speed that process up, by rolling in mud or dust, depending on the arena."

"But only if I'm at luxury to do so. I doubt a pursuing tribute would wait for me to actually get me camouflaged before trying to attack me," Kersia said.

The trainer smiled. "Perfectly correct. Just as suggestion though. And in your case," he added, "you might want to cover your mouth and nose before rolling in the dirt."

Kersia nodded and then began to examine the bits and pieces at the station which were on offer to fashion camouflaging nets and such. Well, there was no way she could carry such nets with her. But maybe if she managed to attach such bits and pieces to her clothes, to her hair, it might help her to blend in. It might actually be doable. So she started to place a few of the bits on her outstretched sleeve, trying to see how to best fasten them to fabric. When the trainer saw what she was doing, he was at first a bit irritated.

"Are you trying to create your own interview costume?" he asked.

Kersia shook her head and explained her idea to him.

"I don't know if you'll manage that with your gear in the arena, but why not..."

His remark on the interview though had reminded Kersia of something. The reason she had given her mentors for volunteering, the reason she would give Caesar during the interview – as the question was sure to come up – was that she knew she was dying anyway, but that this was her only chance to see the beauty of the Capitol with her own eyes. It should flatter the Capitol audience and make it believable in their eyes. But wouldn't it be all the more believable if she actually tried to find out more about this city? And who better to ask than people who lived in the Capitol, like the trainers? Instantly deciding to act on that plan, Kersia, after a quick glance to assure that no other tribute demanded the trainer's attention, asked: "How is life in the Capitol? What is your favourite place here?"

The trainer blinked at her, not having expected the question, but apparently decided to humour her. "I don't know if I can answer your first question, as life is life... I think no matter where you live, there are always things that are great and others which are not so great... that it ultimately depends on how you decide to look at those things. So life here is just that: life."

Kersia pondered this, but the trainer was already continuing. "As to your second question: My favourite place is the purple park. It's a park where all flowers are purple; they even have special shrubs with purple leaves. The gravel on the walks is purple as well, as are the benches. The grass though of course is left its natural green, or else I think, it would be too much purple, even for me, who claims purple as favourite colour. I guess in a city as colourful as the Capitol it's just great to relax in a place where colours are kept to one type. It also allows you in return to appreciate the rainbow of colours that greets you, when you leave the park, more."

Having grown up in a district which was dominated by only one colour per season – green in spring, yellow in summer and brown in winter – Kersia thought it strange that someone would claim a place which attempted to be monochrome as favourite place. But maybe it went hand in hand with what he had said in reference to her first question. Life at the Capitol was one big clash of colours, so maybe to them it was just too much, same as for her seeing only green and only yellow eventually got boring. She smiled at him. "Thank you!"

Soon afterwards she decided to check out another station, though not knowing which, she asked the trainer for a recommendation.

"Why don't you check out the water station? You know, water can always help with your camouflaging effect, be it dust or mud," he said.

Following the advice, Kersia soon however discovered that there really was another reason to learn about the water bottles. So despite linking it to his own station, the trainer had given her a really valuable suggestion. She might not have the strength to operate the quick bottle, but if she had not known that she needed to wait at least an hour before the water in the top compartment became drinkable, she would have really been screwed up in the arena if she was so lucky as to get one of the bottles. Kersia made a mental note to also thank the trainers during her interview. She just hoped that she'd manage to get everything she wanted to say into those short three minutes.

Again she asked the trainer of that station about her life in the Capitol, this time what her favourite thing to do after work was.

"I love to go sound floating," she replied. Upon seeing the girl's bewildered face, she elaborated: "It a swimming place where they have music which is only audible when your ears are under the water. They have special air mattresses to help you float, you only have to dip your head into the water and listen to the music. It's really relaxing."

"This sounds really nice. Thanks for sharing this with me," Kersia said and she really thought it was an interesting activity.

Lunch she shared with Haden and told him that she would take him to the water bottle station after they had eaten. The bottles were too important for him not to learn.

"Are you sure?" he asked a little worried. "Won't you be too tired?"

It was really cute, Kersia thought, how Haden worried about her much the same way she did about him. "It is okay, I have already learned about the bottles, so I can take a break while you try them out."

Luckily the trainer from the knife station had kept his word and the trainer at the bottle station, after dealing with the other tributes who had come by, took extra time to explain things in easy and simple terms which Haden had no problem understanding.

It was while Kersia was sitting by the side, trying to figure out where to go next and whether to take Haden with her or bring him to some other station on his own, that the youngest tribute sat down next to her.

"I'm glad they gave you something to help you breathe," the girl began the conversation.

Kersia raised her eyebrows at her questioningly.

She shrugged. "I couldn't help but notice at the recaps how difficult it was to breathe for you when you stood there on the stage, waiting for the boy tribute to be reaped. Which had me wonder what was wrong with you and how to help you." She shrugged again. "I guess it's because my mother is the apothecary back home and if I hadn't... I wasn't... Well, I had dreamed of one day following her in her footsteps." Obviously she had a hard time to come to terms with the fact that she had been reaped.

Kersia considered this for a moment. How different their lives were, when it was actually only one year which separated them. She knew she was dying, that she had been more or less living on borrowed time anyway, so hadn't made any real dreams. At least not since the explosion. She hadn't dared to. Instead in the end she had decided to make the most of the time left. So maybe it was more like there were two, almost three years separating them mentally. Trying to distract the girl from her melancholy thoughts, Kersia said: "Oh, yes, the Capitol medicine is great. I am even promised some strong syrup for that first day, so I think I can get away from the Cornucopia alive. My mentors also said that the syrup has been added to the list of available sponsor gifts. Not that there will be any sponsor money to buy the syrup, but I prefer to think that it's the thought that counts."

"Maybe you don't necessarily need the syrup, though it would be the most effective," the girl offered. "If you want, we could go to the edible plant station and check out the medicinal effect several of them have. I wouldn't be surprised to find one which might help you." She looked a little ashamed. "I was there this morning and never really thought to look for it..."

Kersia smiled. The other girl really was so innocent. "You had no reason to look for something among the edible plants to help me with my lung problems. But you already helped me a lot by mentioning it to me. I'm sure if not today, then tomorrow I'll take a look at the plants and now I know what to ask the trainer there in addition."

"Still, I'm not such a great first-aid-kid, as Evan always calls me, if I don't remember to check it in time," she replied.

"First-aid-kid?" Kersia asked amused.

The girl nodded. "I think it's the main reason why Evan is okay with us being allies." She sighed. "Still, it would be lovely to have someone my own age in the alliance. Chalen is nice and all that, but she's closer to Evan in age than to me." Just then she clapped her hands over her mouth. "O no! I forgot! Our alliance was to be a secret!"

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," Kersia replied calmly.

"Or," the girl said, becoming excited again, "we might just make you one of the alliance and everything would be fine!"

Kersia immediately shook her head. "No! I mean, thank you, but really... I think allies should all contribute something to the group, which I can't do." She then had an idea. "But if you are really looking for another ally, why not take Haden on? I promise, he's a better ally than I would be."

Seeing the girl's sceptical face, Kersia elaborated: "You should see him with the knives. His dad trained him to be a rat catcher, and he's really good." Giving her a conspiratorial look, she added: "You would even gain someone younger than you for the alliance. Haden may be sixteen on the paper, but his mind is that of a five-year-old. A five-year-old with a deadly skill."

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Delilah sighed as a note popped up on her data-pad. Why were people disturbing her like this? Didn't they know that she was engaged to be married and therefore had better things to do than assessing tributes? Like sorting through fashion plates to find what she wanted as wedding dress? Or checking out suitable menus? Or decorations? Didn't they know just how much there was to be done in terms of organisation? Of course Owan had suggested they hire a professional wedding manager, but Delilah had shot that idea down. She had been to enough weddings to know that those managers usually ignored all wishes of the bride and groom (though the grooms would go along with the manager's suggestions because it was the easiest way) and just said it couldn't be managed. As if! They were just too lazy to really incorporate their clients' wishes. She would show them that even such seemingly clashing things like having to issue an invitation to the President – not that he would come, but it had to be issued anyway – and using cute little romantic pigs as frame around the text of the invitation card could be fused. They would just have to have the pigs have a rose tattoo... everyone knew that roses would make it all acceptable with the President.

"So, what do you think about the trainer's suggestion?" a voice just then said next to Delilah.

Looking up she froze like a startled tribute on Reaping Day. The person speaking to her was none other than Gaius Mendelev, head gamemaker and her boss.

"Ahem..." She hurriedly tried to close the window with her wedding notes and pull up the note which had disturbed her earlier. Unfortunately her hectic tapping on the data-pad didn't escape her boss' notice.

"Just see that you do as the trainer suggested. With at least a third of the backpacks." Gaius sighed. "Oh, and Delilah? I'll send you a file later today. See that you have it printed out twenty-five times for private sessions!"

Delilah gulped. This really had been a close call. Luckily Gaius seemed to be in a lenient mood. Finally retrieving the note, she sighed when she read the camouflage trainer's suggestion that they add sewing kits to at least some of the backpacks. Backpacks which except for fresh water and perishable food had been all packed for the last week. Well, those packs with first-aid-kits already had sewing equipment for suturing wounds, so she could ignore those. But of course such kits were only in the backpacks close to or inside the cornucopia. Maybe if she packed sewing kits in about half the packs of the outer perimeter?

Thoughts of sewing kits soon turned her mind again to the fashion plates of wedding dresses and Delilah was once more lost in her own world. At least until the promised file from Gaius showed up on her pad. Opening it, she hung her head dejectedly. It was a table of the tributes' names and columns on which to mark points awarded during private session for skills exhibited. If she was to print them out it meant that Gaius would have them turn off their data-pads for the private sessions. Officially so they couldn't access their previous notes of the tributes they had compiled over the last day, and would only award private session points. Unofficially it was of course to keep her from using her data-pad for her wedding planning. A whole afternoon she'd have to actually watch those tributes... Well, maybe she might then discover the tribute, who caused the whole sewing-kit mess.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	26. Chapter 24 - Training: Trying

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 24: Training – It's all about trying**

 _Damin Hos, mentor, D9_

The kids were both in bed, but Damin didn't feel like retiring himself. Instead he opted for a brief spell of fresh air on the roof. Thankfully it was deserted by now; even the most curious tribute wanted to catch at least a bit of sleep before the all-important private session the next day.

Leaning against the rail, Damin took a deep breath. It might not be the same as watching the stars at home – the lights of the Capitol blotted out almost all stars –, but it was calming in its own way.

Footsteps on the gravel had him look around sharply, before he relaxed once more as he caught sight of Estelle, the mentor of District 5. Of all mentors he could bear her presence best this year, as she knew herself how it was to deal with a tribute destined to die. As such they had both avoided the sponsors' lounge so far, not wanting to be pitied or mocked by the Career mentors, who any other year might be nice enough – they were all victors after all. Not that the mentors' lounge had been that much better, but there, if one stared hard enough at one's coffee the others at least took the hint to leave one alone.

"What brings you out on this lovely night?" he asked, deciding that it would be rather rude to ignore her entirely.

Approaching, Estelle smiled and held up a sprig of some plant or other. "I thought it would give Alicia a little boost of confidence if she had a bit of plant to hold onto for tomorrow. This plant might be neither edible nor of any medicinal use, but as a token..."

"I've never heard of someone taking a token with them for private session," Damin muttered, but after a moment's consideration added a bit louder: "Maybe though it's something we should all consider. At least for those tributes who aren't bursting with self-confidence to begin with. Any idea what I might give Haden? I don't think Kersia needs one, but Haden would appreciate it, I think."

The two of them stood there for a minute or maybe five, lost in contemplation. Then Estelle's face brightened as she offered Damin the sprig. "Here, you take it. Hand it to Haden and tell him to give it to Alicia. As token for the private session. Surely the boy will remember receiving the token for the arena from his father?"

Damin nodded. He had to thank Mr. Steinmetz for so much when it came to his son. But also Kersia for acting upon the father's advice, when the mentors had mentioned it. And the two tributes from District 5 for being so accepting of the simple-minded boy.

Estelle continued. "That's good as he can relate to the idea of Alicia getting a token for the session. In return, I'm sure, our little girl will gift him with one of her sweetest smiles to carry with him for his own session."

"Thank you!" Damin said, putting all the gratefulness he felt into those two simple words, while accepting the plant token.

* * *

 _Haden Steinmetz, D9, 16Y_

He missed his dad. It was all he could think of as he lay in bed, knowing that it was probably time to get up and have some breakfast. Yesterday had not been that bad. Haden had known that his dad would be at home, right in front of the television set and wait for him to appear on the screen. That thought had carried him through the day as strange people had fussed about him and eventually dressed him in some green and white garment. He had actually liked the parade, knowing his dad would see him. But now it would be three days before his dad would see him again. And then it would only be his picture with a number next to it. It was just not the same. He wouldn't even be able to wave at his dad...

There was a knock on his door and Aurora called out for him to come into the dining room for breakfast. Haden sighed. Cradling his handkerchief rat in his hand, he got up. It wouldn't be right to stay in his room. Not when Aurora was being so nice. Damin was nice to him, too. As was Kersia. They were all really nice to him, unlike those kids back home in the square. And Haden knew that being nice should be returned with equal measure.

Still in his pyjamas, he padded out into the hall and into the dining room. The others were already there, though Haden was the only one still wearing his sleep wear. It made Haden uncomfortable, but as nobody mentioned it and Aurora only patted the chair next to her, inviting him to sit down, he guessed it was okay.

"Are you looking forward to the training today?" the woman asked gently.

Haden shrugged. Then he remembered that his dad didn't like it, when he did that, and that his dad never accepted it as an answer. "No, not really," he replied. "My dad won't be able to see me there."

The others nodded understandingly. "But he will know what you have been doing these days when he sees your training score," Damin offered. "So if you go to the training and try to do your best, your dad will know and be proud of you."

Haden pondered this and then nodded slowly. It made sense.

Still he was scared when, after dressing in some clothes someone had laid out for him on his bed, Kersia led him down to the gymnasium. What if the others were mean to him? What about the rats his dad had warned him about?

Again Kersia helped him, explained things to him, and she even got him knives to throw. The knives were certainly different from the knife back home, but soon Haden was lost in practicing throwing it at the target that was a rat but really was only a black circle. Kersia also was there to have lunch with him. She didn't look as tired as she had that first evening on the train, yet Haden worried about her. The mentors had told him that she was ill and didn't have much strength. That she might need to rest and maybe even have a nap like he did when he was younger. But she assured him that it was alright and sat with him as he practiced with those weird bottles. He did not quite understand why it was important that he not drink the water directly from the bottle, but the trainer was nice in explaining things to him, so he decided that he should just do as she directed. Like his dad had taught him, he practiced the handling of the water bottles over and over again so as to make sure that he would not forget, and apparently it was the right thing to do as the trainer, Kersia, and later at dinner the mentors praised him for it.

All in all that first day of training hadn't been as bad as it could have been.

The next day however was even better. Like the previous day, he started the training with throwing some knives, but when he got ready to collect the set from the target to throw again, a boy about his size behind him said: "You know, when Kersia said that you were good at this, I didn't believe her, but she was right, you are awesome with those knives."

Haden was startled. Why would Kersia mention this to someone else?

"Why don't you go and throw them again? I'll fetch one of my friends, who would like to see you throw as well," the boy suggested.

Haden eyed him wearily. He tried to see the number that was pinned to the boy's back to see if he was a rat or maybe just nice.

"What is it?" The boy asked, slightly irritated.

"I... I just want to know if you are a rat?" Haden admitted.

"A rat?"

He nodded. "My dad said that the ones with 1, 2 or 4 on their backs are really rats in costumes."

The boy blinked a bit, then nodded, obviously getting the idea of what Haden meant. Turning around, he displayed his 5. "I'm Evan, from District 5, so no rat. And I promise not to bring any rat to watch you throw, okay?"

Haden nodded. Finally collecting his knives, he saw the boy, Evan, sprint over to the little girl Kersia had been speaking with the previous day. The girl, who also had a five on her back, then returned with Evan to the throwing range.

He was a bit nervous to have those two watching him, but he concentrated as hard as he could and really hit all the circle-rats.

"That was fantastic!" the little girl exclaimed. "I wish I could do this as well as you can!"

"I practiced a lot. With my dad," Haden explained, but he was pleased with the girl's words.

"It's nearly lunch time. Would you like to sit with us?" Evan invited him.

Haden looked over to Kersia. He didn't want to abandon her.

The little girl smiled at him. "I'm sure that Kersia will join us. Why don't we go and ask her?"

There was another girl, one with an eight on her back, who also sat at their table, though a few seats away, as if she didn't want to really sit with them. Still Haden caught her listening in on their conversation. It irritated him a bit.

It was Evan who explained it to him. "The girl over there, this is Chalen. She is one of our friends. But she fears that if she is seen with us before we enter the arena, the Careers would instantly target her."

Haden furrowed his brow. He didn't quite understand what Evan meant. What were Careers? And the arena?

"He means the rats... Chalen thinks that if she is seen with Evan and Alicia during training the rats will go after her immediately when the real adventure begins." Kersia elaborated.

Evan nodded. "Yes, that's what I meant. So she is making it seem as if she is not really part of our group, but in the arena – once the adventure starts – she will be with us."

"But what about Kersia and me? We are sitting with you now. Will that make a difference to the rats? Will they now go after you? Because I am a rat catcher..." Haden asked innocently.

"I think," Alicia offered, "that they will keep away, now that they see that we are friends with a rat catcher. A really good rat catcher."

"Friends?" Haden was a little startled. His dad had mentioned finding friends for this adventure, but somehow he hadn't believed it, simply because he hadn't really had friends back home. Maybe it was different now that he was among adventurers?

"Friends!" Alicia nodded firmly, whereas Evan still looked a little doubtful. But that was okay, Haden decided. If Alicia wanted to be friends with him, he would be her friend. And if Evan only wanted to be friends with Alicia, and wasn't mean to him for also being friends with Alicia, he could well live with that. "Friends," he confirmed.

Yet it was Evan, who invited him to join him to check out some other stations with him that afternoon. "How about you join me at the fire making station?"

Haden shrank back a bit scared and shook his head vigorously. "No! I'm not allowed. My dad said that fire is too dangerous, so I am not allowed to play with it."

Evan was about to say something brusque in reply, but Kersia leaned over to him and whispered something in his ear. Haden didn't like it when people whispered, but as it had Evan relax again, he decided that once in a while whispering might be okay. He really hadn't liked it how Evan's face had turned all cold as he looked at him just a moment ago.

"Ah, okay, so no fire making. What about shelter-making? It's really useful to know about," Evan suggested and Haden nodded happily. He was more than willing to try and learn something new, even if he had a hard time to remember everything. But his dad had always said that he should at least try.

Again the trainer took the time to explain things to him in a way he could understand and though he didn't quite grasp why he should build the roof in a layer of two roofs, Haden was proud that he remembered that two roofs were better. And making those roofs was not easy either, but at the end of the day he had managed it with only a little help from the trainer. Evan had left the shelter making station eventually to go to the one with the fires, but Haden was pleased to see that both he and Alicia were there when training ended to say goodnight.

"They are really my friends," he announced with obvious satisfaction at dinner.

It was then that the Capitol woman, who had called Haden's name back home, interjected. "Oh, please! Listen to that idiot. Managed to create a shelter, but still needed the trainer to help him. But the trainer was so nice. Maybe we can ask the trainer to accompany him into the arena!"

The way she said it made Haden cringe. Yet he bravely said: "I am no idiot. My dad said I am not!"

"My dad said, my dad said. Not one original thought comes out of that mouth! And you think he can actually survive a single day in the arena?"

"Mimi!" Aurora said sharply and Damin looked as if he wished to stuff his napkin into the escort's mouth. Kersia looked disturbed.

Haden felt tears forming in his eyes. He rapidly tried to blink them away. He didn't want to cry. Not in front of that nasty lady. Maybe... maybe she was also just a rat? Grabbing the fork in his hand tighter, he was just about to throw it at Mimi, when he suddenly felt Kersia's little hand on his arm.

"Don't," she pleaded quietly.

"But she's a rat!" Haden replied, getting really angry, because no matter what Aurora and Damin tried, the Capitol woman wouldn't stop shrieking and calling him bad names.

"Maybe," Kersia conceded, "but remember, that we are to kill rats only after the adventure has started."

"But why should we wait? At home, waiting to kill the rats would mean that they get into the grains!" Haden whined. He didn't understand this. One moment they were having a nice dinner and the next this woman was screaming. And now, even though she agreed that this woman might be a rat, Kersia cited all those rules about killing rats or not.

"Haden, look around you," the girl said, still trying to remain calm, which wasn't easy as Aurora had resorted to slapping the almost hysterical escort. "We are not at home. We are in between home and the place of the adventure. So here we have to wait. But in a few days we'll be where the adventure starts." A sad smile accompanied her words, which Haden didn't really understand either.

"So, if I see her then..." He looked at Kersia questioningly.

Smiling again, she nodded. "Yes. If you see her when we begin our adventure, you may throw your fork at her. Or a knife. Or a stone. Or a large and nasty bug. I bet that would make her really scream."

The thought of throwing a bug at her, had Haden giggle. Or maybe he could find a spider...

Meanwhile Damin had somewhat forcefully escorted Mimi from the dining room. Avoxes busied themselves with straightening the table as the escort in her tantrum had overturned a few glasses. Thanking them, Aurora announced that maybe they should serve the dessert.

Haden's eyes brightened. He loved dessert. Today it was ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. And strawberry cake. And whipped cream. Haden was absolutely happy.

Only when he lay in bed and waited for Damin to come and bid him a good night – both mentors did that every night and Aurora had already been there – did bits from the hateful words the Capitol woman had said return. Replaying them in his mind, Haden found that they really disturbed him. They hurt. So it was first on his mind, when Damin finally entered his bedroom. "Why did she have to be so mean? And why did she say that my dad should have drowned me? I'm not some sick dog!"

"Oh Haden, don't think too much about her words. They weren't true. Mimi, she doesn't know you. She doesn't know your talents. She has never seen you work with your dad to catch rats. She doesn't even know how good you are at throwing knives." Damin said comfortingly.

"But I told her how the others had said that I was really good at throwing knives," Haden replied, puzzled.

"I know." Damin sat down on the edge of Haden's bed. "But there are people who only believe what they can see. And as Mimi is not allowed in the gymnasium while you train with your friends, she can't see it. She will only see it when the adventure begins."

"But my dad said that you should only say something if you know what you say is to be true."

Damin smiled at the simple phrasing of the age-old saying: 'Better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.' Though the latter was obviously what the escort had done that evening. "Your dad is a wise man. As such you had much better listen to him than to Mimi Meemee."

"But do you know why she said those things?" Haden asked as it was really bothering him.

His mentor sighed, but then tried to explain it to him. "Do you remember the parade? And how beautiful the two adventurers in the first chariot looked in their golden clothes?"

Haden nodded slowly. They had been really pretty. Even though they were rats.

"Now, Mimi is someone who loves beautiful clothes. That's why she actually likes to come to visit us once a year, because for this visit she will get extra nice clothes," Damin continued.

The boy wrinkled his forehead. He had never thought the clothes she wore to be extra nice. But maybe she was a strange person and liked them, even if they were not extra nice? He certainly hadn't liked the nice clothes his father had insisted he wear for that day, so maybe it was the other way round for her?

"Now, Mimi thinks that if you and Kersia were more like the adventurers from the first chariot, that you then might get to wear beautiful gold clothes and that she herself might get even nicer clothes when she comes to visit."

"So, she likes those rats better?" Haden said, apparently understanding just enough of what Damin tried to convey.

"Yes." Damin nodded sadly.

"Because she is also a rat?"

"I'm not sure she is a rat. But she is from the Capitol, and we all know that people from the Capitol are strange. I wouldn't be surprised if they kept rats as pets." Damin said.

"Rats for pets? Ugh!" Haden pulled a disgusted face.

"Good thing then that you are no rat, so Mimi won't be tempted to keep you as pet," the mentor said jokingly.

"No, I'm no rat. I'm a rat catcher. And now an adventurer!" Haden replied with conviction.

"I know. But adventurers need their sleep. So close your eyes and dream something nice. Good night Haden."

* * *

 _Alicia Quinn, D5, 12Y_

Alicia didn't know what to feel. It wasn't even that she felt numb; it was more like she was feeling too much at the same time. There was this devastation at having been reaped. The sure knowledge that she was going to die and she really didn't want to die. There was the relief, when she found out that Evan was going to stick to her side, even without the mentors' prompting. The hope she couldn't help but feel when Evan said he had a plan, though she didn't understand it at first.

"You did what?" he asked her incredulously as they rode up the elevator at the end of the first training day.

"I asked Kersia if she wanted to join us. But she said no, though she recommended her district partner as potential ally." Alicia said innocently, not knowing why Evan sounded so upset.

"Listen!" Evan was balling his hands to keep himself from shaking Alicia. "I'm actually trying to form an alliance that will help us survive in the arena. This is not some school picnic to invite anybody and everybody to!"

"But won't we stand better chances if we are more people to our alliance?"

"If they are strong people, yes! But Alicia, surely you understand that this girl..."

"Kersia," Alicia interjected.

Evan rolled his eyes. "Kersia... that Kersia is handicapped. Without the Capitol medicine she won't be able to run away when we are attacked. And we don't even know if she has some useful skill that might help us."

Alicia frowned. Kersia had actually said something along those very lines herself. "But it's not fair... besides, we don't even know if Chalen is all that good with traps as you make her out to be."

The elevator opened and Evan quickly ushered Alicia past the nosy escort who lingered in the living room. Not wanting to choose between either bedroom, he led her into the dining room.

"Look, I know that Chalen in the end might not be able to do more than run away with us. But she can run, unlike Kersia. And Chalen has something else, which will be helpful and which is why I asked you to try if you can strike up a conversation with her. She will have sponsor money. Do you remember the crowd chanting her name yesterday? Whatever it is that made the Capitol know her name, now that they know it, they will sponsor her. And what would be more natural than her sharing whichever sponsor gifts her mentor sends with her allies?"

"So, it's not really about Chalen, but about the potential gifts?" Somehow Alicia felt betrayed. In her trust because it was at his suggestion that she had approached Chalen, and she didn't like the thought that it now looked as if she was also only interested in those potential gifts. And what about her? Was he only keeping her around as an ally because she was useful to him with her first-aid-knowledge? But then, even if he allied himself with her only for selfish reasons, was she really better than him? She knew that she didn't stand a chance without someone to protect her...

"I know it sounds harsh, but nobody chanted our names yesterday." Evan said bluntly. He didn't even have to add that no one in their right mind would sponsor a twelve-year-old like her.

Alicia sighed. Likewise it was clear that nobody would sponsor Kersia. Still she hated to disappoint the girl whom she thought might have been her friend under different circumstances. That's when she remembered something, Evan had actually said during lunch when they were talking about the alliance. "Then what about her district partner? Haden I mean?"

"What about him?" Evan asked exasperatedly. "He's an idiot!"

"Don't call him that!" Alicia snapped back at him. "You don't like being called all kinds of names just because of what you do for a living. I bet Haden doesn't like being called an idiot. He may be slow in his head, but he has ears to hear!"

"Still, what use would he be to us?" Evan replied, not even bothering to apologize for his words.

"Kersia said he was really good with knives. Just think about it. She wouldn't say it unless he was really good at it because else the knives would just be too dangerous for him. And she was really looking out for him today. And didn't you say today at lunch that we need someone with decent weapon skills for our alliance? So why not Haden? It might actually surprise the hell out of the Careers," Alicia argued fiercely.

"Because we would always have to watch him, make sure he doesn't do something stupid..."

Alicia shook her head disapprovingly. "He is not as helpless as you think. He actually already knows about the water bottles, so we wouldn't have to worry about him making himself sick with the water. He might learn something else in addition over the next days. So it wouldn't be that bad. Evan, really, who would you ask to join us who has decent weapon skills? Just think about it... won't they already have better alliance offers?"

"Why are you adamant at having either of those losers?" Evan asked, huffing in annoyance.

"Why are you so adamant not to give them a chance?" Alicia countered. She didn't even know she had it in her to be so fierce, to argue so passionately. Maybe it was because at home the others never made her fight for something.

"Okay, tell you what: I'll give this Haden a chance when you tell me why you are so set to have him in our alliance!"

Alicia pondered this for a moment, then struck out her hand. "Deal!"

With a raised eyebrow, Evan shook her hand and Alicia actually began to tell him how she had disliked the notion of being the youngest in the alliance. That though sixteen in actual years, Haden's mental age was only five. And though she knew that it was most likely an irrational thought, she had feared at the bottom of her heart that when it came down to it, Evan might sacrifice her as the youngest and most likely weakest link in their alliance. That with Kersia as her peer, they would have stood a better chance against him, but she understood the issue of lacking skills and ability to run with them. She hastened to add: "I don't want you to think that I want Haden in the alliance because then you might sacrifice him if necessary instead of me. Even if his mental age makes him younger than me. But I feel it would make the alliance more balanced, would make me feel more secure. At the same time I think it would help Kersia a lot to know that Haden would be taken care of. Without us she would try to be there for him as she has been today. But we both know that she won't last long in the arena. Kersia herself also knows it. And she knows that Haden won't last long without some help either. I know..." Alicia sighed. "Haden doesn't really have a chance at winning, but I think Kersia is more looking for someone who will outlive Haden, so that he doesn't have to be alone when he dies. Alone and afraid. And that's a sentiment I can connect with. You know, you can't be a good apothecary, or even an apprentice in my case, without feeling for people. So I guess it's just part of who I am. Wanting an alliance balanced a bit more in my favour and keeping that part of me that cares for people."

Evan had let her ramble on, allowing her to give him all those arguments which were bottled up in her. And while he quickly spoke out against the sentiment of sacrificing an ally, there was no denying that in the end he stood much better chances at winning than she did and they both knew it. "Okay... So here's what we do. Tomorrow we'll see how good Haden is with the knives. If he is as good as Kersia claims, we invite him to have lunch with us. To see if we get along with each other. After all, it might well be that he doesn't like us for whatever reason. Yet if it all goes well, I'll then see how he does with something new, something he hasn't learned yet. And only then we decide. Is that okay for you?"

Alicia nodded vigorously. It was after all a very reasonable approach. "I'll let Kersia know that she should direct Haden to the knives when we see her first in the morning. And I'll tell her not to interfere when you try to get Haden learn some new skill."

"Only twelve years and already getting wise!" Evan teased her, keeping to himself how impressed he was at her reasoning of wanting to keep that part of hers that cared for others when the arena posed a real danger of losing it.

Avoxes entered the room to begin laying out the table for dinner.

"Are we good?" Alicia asked a little uncertain.

"Of course we are! I actually think that we'll be stronger as allies, now that we both know that we can talk things out and make each other see reason, rather than try intimidation – in my case – or ruthless puppy eyes – in your case – to win an argument." Evan said with a wide smile. "Come on, we might just have time to take a shower."

The next day was bitter sweet. First of all they had been forced to break their promise to Chalen to all keep apart, as it was really impractical for Alicia and Evan to stay away from each other and still test Haden. Luckily though, a glance at Chalen had shown her that the other girl had not minded it much.

Evan approved of Haden and his knife throwing skills, which really were amazing. But as Alicia went over the edible plants once more, she was joined by Kersia. Quietly working on her own for a while, the other girl eventually said: "You know that Haden will think that I'm part of your alliance as well?"

Alicia gulped and slowly nodded.

"You and I of course know that I'm not – for reasons we already discussed yesterday. But Haden... He won't really like the truth. I'm not sure he'll even believe it. So I think it's better if you let him believe I'm part of the group. Only that I got separated from you during those hectic first minutes after the gong. I'll even make sure to run in a different direction to make it credible. And then, when my picture eventually appears in the night sky, tell him that I had been on my way to you, to him. Will you do that?"

Tears pricked Alicia's eyes, but what was she to do other than to nod? It was all so unfair. In the end, she didn't know how she made it through the rest of the afternoon without crying. But as soon as they reached their suite, she made a dash for her bedroom where she flung herself onto the bed and cried all those bitter tears. For Kersia. For herself. Why? Oh why were they forced to participate in those deadly games while having no chance at all? Why weren't they given the time to grow up to the point where they might have a chance? Why?

So wrapped up in her world of sorrow had she been that she hadn't even realized that she had wailed out those questions aloud. As such she was so startled, when she received an answer, that she almost fell off the bed.

"I don't think Kersia would have had that chance anyway."

It was Balraj, who had come to fetch her for dinner, but one look at the distraught girl nixed that idea.

Alicia wiped some of the tears away, but new ones were already following, this time brought on by the truth of the mentor's words. Kersia... she had volunteered, so she could see the Capitol before she died. That was at least what she had told the trainer at the edible plant station. So she really would have died with or without the games.

"As for you... you know why. You listened to it only two days ago." He obviously meant the treaty of treason.

"But why force twelve-year-olds and thirteen-year-olds against eighteen-year-olds? Why not make it mandatory only for those between age sixteen and eighteen? Then they all stand at least a chance!" Alicia pouted. It really was so unfair!

"Ah, but then Finnick Odair wouldn't have won," Balraj said with a grin.

"They could make it voluntary for anyone between twelve and fifteen years. This way even Kersia could have gotten her wish and volunteered." Alicia grumbled.

"But Finnick was no volunteer," the mentor reminded her gently. "He was, like you, forced into these games. And everybody, including the other Careers, thought that at fourteen he didn't stand a chance. Yet he proved them all wrong."

"And next you'll tell me that you want me to prove them wrong, too, and dethrone Finnick as youngest victor ever," bristled the girl.

"Well, it certainly would give the people something to think about," Balraj said smiling.

"As if I stood a chance!"

"Alicia!" Balraj now said sternly. "If you think like this, you won't win, that's for sure. But tell you what: Your chances might be slim, but so were mine. I'm not sure if you remember my games, but my training score was far from great, I got hit by a rock slide a few days into the games and then only was too stubborn to die while everybody else certainly had already given up on me. Yes, I got lucky in the end when the two other final combatants killed each other – something nobody had expected, but had I given up, I would have been dead long before. So I don't want to hear anything from you that sounds remotely like giving up!"

Balraj was right, she barely remembered his games. But she remembered one thing. "You got a gift in the arena!"

"Yes. I did. But only after I had proven that I was not one to give up. So, don't you think that people will also sponsor you, send enough money that we can send you a gift, if you show them that you don't give up? Even if with twelve years you have perhaps the lowest chances?" Balraj challenged her.

"They would?" Alicia asked disbelieving.

"Well, as more and more tributes die, there'll be less and less tributes left among which the sponsors can choose. So, you do your part in surviving and showing them how strong you really are and we do our part in pointing out to the sponsors that you are actually worth backing up, okay?"

"O... okay," Alicia said, though her eyes still betrayed some doubt as to her attracting any sponsors.

"Of course it won't hurt if you come in with a decent training score tomorrow. But then again... perhaps it would be better if you had not so high a score," Balraj said conspiratorially. "If you score more than a five tomorrow, the Careers might decide you are a threat. But if you have four or less, and then survive the first two days, I could claim with the sponsors that you actually held back during training. That you are like a little secret super-tribute!"

This elicited a small giggle from Alicia. She certainly was no super-tribute, secret or not. "You are silly," she said to her mentor.

"And so are you, if you think we'll give up on you."

* * *

 _The Gamemakers_

Xanthos breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the youngest tribute chat with her district partner and the two tributes from District 9 before saying goodbye for the day. Also, going by the notes from the camera observations from lunch time, it appeared as if she had some kind of support network in place in form of an alliance. An odd one, to be sure, but there seemed to be a strategy behind it. Anyway, he was just glad that she wouldn't be on her own and in all likelihood die the first day. It always put the audience off if the youngest was among the first to die. Such tributes regularly evoked pity and a fierce longing to protect them, but only as long as they survived. And as any sentiment in the Capitol was worth money for the enterprise which elicited that sentiment, it would be the Hunger Games enterprise that benefited from these emotions through the sponsor money. Though with what he was seeing, he was actually beginning to hope that she might make it to day three or even beyond.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Someone said beside him.

Recognizing the voice as that of his colleague Flavius, Xanthos said: "What? That her district partner is sticking with her?"

"Oh, no, I actually meant the boy tribute from District Nine," Flavius replied. "You know, when the Reaping results of that district came in, I immediately called our medical liaison. Not only because of the girl's breathing problems, but because the boy might be unstable. But so far we have not had a single situation where we even came close to needing a sedative for him."

This had Xanthos look at the boy. "You are right, this is really remarkable. I had assumed that you had simply had the Avoxes slip him some medication with the breakfast."

Flavius shook his head. "I informed his mentors that such medication was available should they feel the need for it, but left it up to them. Of course, had the parade gone awry, I would have forced the issue, but he was actually quite cheerful throughout the chariot ride, waving and smiling at the cameras. And he seemed also quite well-behaved during training."

Xanthos had meanwhile pulled up the boy's file from the trainers. "Ah... looks like the girl shared with them how the family had treated him back home and how it was working. They adopted the approach and he actually learned two additional skills."

"Not to mention the skill he already brought with him, which got him on friendly terms with the tributes from District Five this morning," Flavius pointed out.

"Think they'll form an alliance?"

"Those four?" Flavius shook his head. "Not quite. Substitute the girl from District Nine with the girl from District Eight and you have it, I think. At least, that's what I observed yesterday."

"Wow, that is big! Are you actually saying that we have about half of the tributes who are bound to evoke pity in the same alliance, keeping that very sentiment somewhat in check?" Xanthos asked. If so, this would make for really great games for the accounting – the specific part of the gamemakers' enterprise for which he was responsible.

Flavius nodded. "Pity will turn to cheering for them, which is just as good for your finances, right?"

"Plus it might keep us from having to spend something in terms of medication or even more permanent measures on the boy... Yes. If your predictions prove to be correct, then we'll be in for great games!"

 **A/N:** And that's it for the training chapters. Thanks for reading.


	27. Interlude 2

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Interlude II**

 _Capitol, Runio Pascell_

The room spoke of power, of money, of influence. The walls were done in darker colours, yet elegantly so. The furniture was heavy, expensive looking but actually comfortable as the latter aspect had been the primary criterion for choosing those pieces. After all, it wouldn't do for the most exclusive private club in the Capitol to have rickety and uncomfortable chairs.

It was interview night and there was actually a TV running somewhere in the back of the room, assuring that those present still abided by the law which required them to also watch this part of the Hunger Games season. But the four men who sat around the table of the private room, drinking water and coffee, had no eyes for Caesar as he chatted, commiserated and laughed with the twenty-four tributes. After all, the interviews were a show put on for the sponsors, not for them.

They – that were the bosses of the four official betting agencies of the Capitol, meeting that evening to reset the odds for each of the tributes for their various betting offices. Yes, the odds would all differ slightly, as each of these men had their own preferences, but there would be an overall consensus, ensuring that all betting agencies in the end were the real winners. And the Capitol of course, as a percentage of all the money they earned would go to the government.

"Another coffee, sir?" Runio Pascell, the waiter, asked the man with the red ruffled scarf politely. Runio didn't know the names of those he was waiting on, but that was actually part of the club's philosophy. Anonymity for those who could afford it... and it paid well.

This was the second time the group met this year, the first having been the evening after the Reaping as of course all the gamblers wanted to place their first bets early the next morning. One might have expected them to meet again after the parade, but Runio knew these men agreed that any impression given then was more to be attributed to the stylists than the actual tributes. Besides, so close to the Reaping, it made no sense to already adjust the odds. Another opportunity to meet might have been the night the training scores were released, but here, in agreement with the government, the bosses waited till after the interviews to make it look as if those also had an impact on the odds. Which they had not, as the betting bosses were quite adamant that no play-acting, no matter how good and convincing on the stage with Caesar, would survive the first two minutes in the arena. To these men, only the facts counted: Impression at Reaping.

Training scores.

Performance in the arena.

They would meet a third and final time to reset the odds when there were only eight tributes left. Again the odds would only be released after the interviews with the families had been aired to make it appear as if the personal insights of those dearest to the tributes were having an influence, though once more only the facts counted.

The man with the scarf absentmindedly handed Runio his cup for it to be refilled. The man opposite to him, wearing a gigantic yellow wig, signalled that he, too, wanted another coffee, whereas the others declined.

On the screen in the background the girl from District 2 was turning Caesar into an impromptu mummy, but the betting bosses saw nothing of it.

"So we are agreed that the boys from Districts One, Two and Four, along with the girl from District Two still stand the best chances," one of them, wearing hideous green lip-powder, said, pouring over the sheets with the training scores.

Runio listened closely while keeping to the background and appearing to be not interested in their conversation at all. His contract with the club might include a clause that prevented him from personally gaining any advantage from information learned from their patrons, but that didn't mean he couldn't tell friends who in turn might place bets. And so what if these then invited him to a fancy dinner should they win their bets?

"Of course. They got top scores and after last year will fight even harder to secure a win for one of their districts. I'm actually inclined to lower the odds slightly for the boy from District Four. After all, he is the only one who got a Ten in training, which might well be an indication," the man with the yellow wig said.

"I don't think so," the man with the red scarf replied. "I doubt that the tributes from Districts One and Two would stand for another winner from District Four so soon again. But the girl from District Two... she's intriguing in that she scored the same as the two other boys. Usually only the fierce girls with the bulky muscles manage that, but she has none of that. So there has to be more to her in order to get that Nine. I think I'm going to lower her odds slightly."

"What about the two other girls from that traditional alliance?" the fourth man, dressed all in blue, asked. "They scored only one point less than the majority of them, and the girl from District Four has Finnick Odair working to get her all the sponsors needed."

"You forget that the odds are to be about the tributes as per our agreement, not their sponsors, or else the interview would count," the man with the wig reminded him.

"Oh, I do know that. But just listening to my wife for five minutes... Well, let's say that the girl will have the sponsor money needed to get her whatever it is she requires. And to get an Eight is no mean feat, so I doubt they'll have to spend the money on such trivial things like water or food... more like extra weapons... Might well influence the odds." The man in blue elaborated.

"Hm...," the man with the green lips pondered. "While I don't agree with the idea of that influencing that girl's odds, I might lean towards raising the odds slightly for the girl from District One. She has the same score, but with less accompanying factors to sway things in her favour."

Pens scratched on paper as they all made notes of their individual odds for the six tributes they had discussed so far.

The man with the scarf was the first who finished and rifling through the score sheets, said: "We have two more tributes, who also scored an Eight. Think any of them might end up as further ally to the six?"

All of them shook their heads in unison. "The boy from District Six is of the same age as the other boys. It would cause too much friction in terms of leadership I dare say. Also I think they consider him more of a threat, if only because of the experience his age gives him along with his training score, so his days might actually be numbered," the man in blue voiced his opinion.

"While I agree with regards to the alliance and the threat, I don't think it will be easy for the alliance to terminate that threat. So I'm actually inclined to lower this boy's odds slightly," the man with the scarf replied.

"Don't forget who his mentors are," the man with the yellow wig piped up. "We all know that no victor ever made it through the games without the support from the mentors. So based on this, I'm more inclined to raise his odds a bit."

"Haven't you used that argument already when we first set up their odds after the Reaping?" the man in blue inquired.

"Maybe," the man with the wig shrugged. "But ultimately you convinced me to give Pancratius at least some time to attempt and win sponsors before crushing his hopes with the odds... Which I intend to do now."

The man with the green powdered lips interrupted: "The boy aside, I don't see the girl from District Three as potential ally either. Again she is too old for what they would usually look for in a tribute from her district. They might want her technical knowledge, but..."

"No, you are wrong," the man with the scarf interjected. "She's not from the working force of the factories, remember?" They had discussed the background of the tributes during their first meeting.

"All the more reason for them not to want her in the alliance," the other replied, recalling their previous meeting. "They might like her cooking skills, but she won't submit to a servant's position with them. However, since cooking is a valuable skill in the arena, I'm inclined to lower her odds a bit."

Runio made careful mental notes on those two tributes. The Careers were always obvious and none of his friends required his assistance there. Those interested in betting usually put a bit of money on one or two of the Careers to spread out their bets and still be on the safe side. Any other high scoring tributes though were tempting and the bosses had a knack for viewing the whole picture when setting the odds rather than be dazzled by mere details that so often led the gamblers astray.

More scratching of pens followed, then the man in blue said: "Do you want to discuss the Sevens next?"

"Why not," the others shrugged.

"There are four of them...," he began.

The man with the wig shook his head. "I think we can discount the score of the girl from District Eight. Just look at her..." He pointed to the screen where the girl in question was sitting beside her district partner, waiting for her turn to be interviewed. "I honestly doubt that she has that many skills to warrant the score. Her look is not that of a fighter; I don't see the strength... And yet she was given a score higher than her clearly strong district partner."

"So you think the score was raised to appease the audience, who clearly love her?" The man with the powdered lips asked. There were even the occasional banners held up in the audience with the girl's name printed on them in bold letters.

"Might well be," his colleague said. "So I'm actually going to raise her odds."

"You know that the audience won't like such odds," the man with the scarf said mildly.

The one with the wig just grinned. "If it makes them all bet on her and if it makes the sponsors pay even more to support her, just to prove me wrong, I'm all for it. For I really don't think she'll win, no matter her sponsor support." Which effectually meant more money for them.

"True enough," his colleagues conceded.

Runio hid a smirk. Now this was the kind of information he had been looking for. He'd have to drop a word with his father so that he could prevent his wife from spending too much money on that tribute. Not that his stepmother needed any more clothes, but as it was actually for a good cause – or so she argued...

"The boy from District Five and the girls from Districts Seven and Eleven though are hardly a surprise with that score. Age and experience have clearly given them the skills, so I don't see why we should change our previous odds with them," the man in blue suggested and following a slight pause added: "Which brings us to those with a Six as training score."

"First I need the restroom though. All that coffee... Not I would say no to a fresh cup when I return," the man with the green lips announced and Runio obediently served him some more coffee. He then also used the break to retrieve fresh trays of snacks for the group.

A couple of minutes and a myriad of crumbs on the table later they all were ready to go over the next set of tributes. "Here we have the largest group – five altogether." The man in blue said.

His colleague with the red scarf was the first to speak up. "The one who surprised me most of this group was that young boy from District Seven."

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you are looking for a record breaker?" the man with the powdered lips said.

The other shook his head. "No, I don't think he'll win. After all, Finnick's score was even higher... But still, for someone so young to pull that score – it's impressive. So much so that it might get him unwanted attention from the big alliance. I think I'm going to raise his odds a bit in light of that."

"Good point regarding the alliance," the man with the powdered lips replied. "Speaking of raising the odds, I'm thinking of doing that with the boy from District Ten. I don't know, but compared to how the others of his age group did, I expected more from him."

Runio secretly agreed with him.

"You are right," the man with the wig nodded. "I'm also inclined to raise the odds for the girl from District Six, for the same reasons as with her district partner – unreliable mentors."

The man in blue shook his head. "I'm not joining you in this. If only to keep people from figuring out that we might factor mentors in when setting the odds. I'm also inclined to keep my previous odds for the boy from District Eight."

"Well," the man with the yellow wig said, "Like with the boy from District Ten I would have thought that he might do better than a Six. He looks strong and made a steady impression both during Reaping and the parade. But he might actually have held back during training so as to not give away too much... I'm with you in this case for keeping the odds."

While the argument just voiced made sense to the waiter, he wondered if it could not also apply to the boy from District Ten. Maybe he would revise his personal opinion there. Either of those two boys might be worth a Final Eight bet.

"Which leaves the boy from District Eleven to be discussed," his colleague with the scarf said. "He certainly did get a better training score than I expected him to get, though given the fact that the boy form District Seven got the same score, I'm actually inclined to keep the previous odds with him as well."

"I don't think he'll win," the man with the green lips said, "but I'm going to raise his odds just a bit to lure in some of the record lovers... Now for the Fives... looks like we have only one and that is the girl from District Twelve."

"We already figured in the mentor situation with the first odds in her case," the man in blue reminded his colleague with the wig, "so with this one we should actually lower her odds slightly because her training score shows that she has to have some useful skills. And she will know that she has to rely on herself in the arena."

"I guess, given how high her odds are right now, that we can afford to lower them quite a bit. Not too much, but noticeably so. If only to attract more people towards placing a bet on her," the man with the wig conceded.

"The Fours actually surprised me perhaps as much as the some of the Sixes did," the man with the scarf now said, moving on to the next set. "Not so much with the boy from District Three, where I'm inclined to keep the previous odds. But for that idiot of a boy from District Nine to actually score as much as a Four, while that fierce girl from District Ten got just as much... I would never have thought them to end up with the same score."

"I know what you mean," the man in blue said. "I was actually disappointed with the girl. By the way she scowled all through the Reaping and the parade, but also the way her body spoke of muscles, I would have pegged her to get at least a six. But like the boy from District Eight she might have been holding back, so I'm inclined to keep her odds."

"I'll just raise them a bit," the man with the scarf returned with a small smirk. "After all, the scores should have some impact."

"Following that vein, we would have to lower the odds for the boy from District Nine," the man with the wig said, not really happy with that thought. "He did after all exceed our and most likely everyone's expectations. Still, I can't see him win those games."

"Yes, and I don't see how changing his odds will change any of our customers' betting behaviour. Still, maybe by a fragment of a bit? The tiniest change would most likely not be noticed by everyone, but if questioned we would look less biased," the man with the green lips suggested.

The others sighed. "Might as well as not," they eventually agreed.

Runio's eyes widened just the tiniest bit. Had these men really just discussed something akin to politics in front of a waiter? Pride welled up in him. Apparently they trusted the establishment they frequented and as his boss trusted him to wait on these four, which meant that he must be very good at his job. Not that either of them would ever tell him...

"Now for the last three... How humiliating must his score have been for the boy from District Twelve...," mused the man with the scarf. "Not only to only get a meagre Three, but to have the exact same score as the twelve-year-old girl from District Five... I really would have thought him to do better. He even looked better fed than most of them."

"Yes, only the girl from District Nine scored lower with her Two. Though given her medical issues, her score was hardly surprising. So no changes necessary there," the man with the green lips said. "Unfortunately the same can be said for the boy as he already has about the highest odds possible because of his not so stellar impression at the Reaping and his mentor situation. But to raise them even further would give him the same odds as the two girls. And somehow that wouldn't really reflect their odds."

"So no changes for any of those three?" the man in blue asked, quite prepared to go along with that suggestion.

"No changes," the other three agreed.

With that each of them began calculating their individual odds for the tributes and by the time Caesar was running his closing commentary, they were all on their phones to call their bookmakers while Runio was clearing the table of empty plates.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading. If any of you are interested to know how I assigned the training scores, just leave me a message. I promise that the scores actually make sense.


	28. Chapter 25 - Arena: Twenty-Four

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

Warning: As we are now entering the arena, there will be characters dying. I tried to keep it within the rating, but some things have to be written for the rest to make sense. I can promise that there will be no gory descriptions, but I couldn't avoid violence completely.

 **Chapter 25: The Arena – Twenty-Four**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

Claudius Templesmith sat in a comfortable chair in the director's booth above the gamemakers' hub and acquainted himself with this year's arena. It was eight o'clock in the morning and below him the open area with the holographic projection of the arena and the control chairs for the gamemakers was already buzzing with activity, as the last technical checks were being performed. The director's booth however was still quiet and except for him empty, as his colleagues would only join him shortly before the Games actually began. Then again, he was the head director and in charge of which cameras' live-feed would be shown on the broadcast that day, as well as choosing the pictures to be used in the summaries of the nights' events over the next few weeks, so his work was a bit more extensive than that of the rest of his team. And with every arena and every tribute crop being different, it took some skills and time to get a feel for the broadcast and to work out a schedule. His colleagues would eventually take over; giving them an around-the-clock coverage in three shifts, but the opening was his show as much as it was the gamemakers' show. So where his colleagues could get acquainted with the layout and features of the arena while the Games were already ongoing, he had to do so in advance. It would not do to miss some vital action in those first hours just because he overlooked a certain hide-out or other natural advantage of the arena the tributes were sure to use.

As such Claudius was not so much focused on the overview the projection below presented; his eyes were more drawn to the live-feeds the cameras inside the arena were broadcasting to the twenty-four monitors that covered one wall of the director's booth. Supposedly there was one monitor for each tribute, but such a screen display never happened. It was a given that not all tributes would survive the initial minutes of the Games, and there were no cameras flying in front of or behind the tributes to capture their every move. Instead the cameras were implemented in stationary structures, plants or stones as well as some in the dome of the force field to provide bird view images of strategically interesting parts. As such the many monitors would be used to get a better surround survey of places where important scenes were bound to happen. This year's arena made the placement of the cameras even easier than most years, as any action would be within view of one of the ship wrecks which were offering shelter to the tributes.

Fiddling with some of the controls, Claudius switched cameras, and found himself intrigued by how green the arena actually was. When he had first been informed of this year's concept, he had expected something more barren, more desert like. Well, it was still pretty barren with the wrecks adding to the sense of desolation, but there was certainly a lot of plant-life about. Scruffy bushes, reeds, nothing which grew too high, but a low crouching tribute might escape the notice of others.

Methodically he went through all cameras, all possible angles these cameras could be turned and all zoom options for close-ups, until he felt pretty much at home with the arena. Just as he returned to the feed of the cameras capturing the Cornucopia from all directions – the Cornucopia itself being an old ship as well, with the hull cracked open at the bow to allow a clear view inside, stacked high with provisions right now – his first colleagues began filtering in. The head director smirked as he noticed several of them sporting the pained look of one who had one drink too many the previous evening, but as they had shown up for work nevertheless, he didn't comment on their partying habits.

"I brought the starting line-up," Alyssa announced and handed a sheet with a diagram over to Claudius.

"Thanks," he replied, though never really looking up, as the diagram he now held was far more interesting. Claudius knew that the line-up was much more complex than it appeared to the audience in front of the screens. The gamemakers worked hard to allow potential allies, as far as they had been able to determine during training days, to be within view of, though never next to each other. Same went for district partners, who were never placed on neighbouring platforms. At the same time, they had to achieve a nice mix of ages and alternate genders, to make it look almost random, and also to make it appear that all had equal chances to get something from the Cornucopia though not all tributes would go for it.

Claudius knew from experience that those who faced the opening of the Cornucopia directly were placed there to entice them specifically to go for whatever the gamemakers had placed inside exclusively for them. This year that would mean that either the boy tribute from District 6 or the girl tribute from District 11 was to be lured by the sight of a favourite weapon. But also the boy tribute from District 7, next to the girl from District 11, had a good view of the loot, which was an interesting placement of so young a tribute. These three being framed by the girls from Districts 1 and 4 was not so surprising, but then again, with a full alliance of six, spacing the Big Alliance evenly around the Cornucopia could actually complicate the set-up tremendously.

The increasing noise level around him let Claudius knew that it was almost time and walking over to the microphone which would carry his voice directly into the arena – and into all districts by means of TVs – he watched the countdown projected above the holographic arena.

On cue the tributes were rising out of their launch rooms on the platforms. As these came to a standstill and the clock struck ten, Claudius pushed the button to activate the microphone: "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

 _Marten Cooper, D1, 18Y_

Marten ignored the constant chatter of the stylist, as he dressed for the arena. Methodically he put on the provided underwear, trousers, shirt, jacket, belt, socks and boots. He knew he should probably examine the outfit to learn perhaps a thing or two about the arena as the launch room of course offered no hint, or to familiarize himself with the locations of available pockets to stow away things, or to see if anything might be used as impromptu weapons, but he was too tense for such analysis. Then again, once the initial fight at the Cornucopia was over, he would be at leisure to become acquainted with everything, so no need to do so now. Or he would be dead, in which case such knowledge didn't matter anyway, a small voice reminded him, but he pushed it resolutely to the side. He had no intention of dying today, quite the opposite. The only thing which slightly worried him was that he had no idea how his allies would react once he acted on his plan. Same went for potential sponsors. Hopefully he would get a chance to explain himself, but there was no way he would not enact the plan.

Thoughts about the plan and possible scenarios to see things happen just the way he planned, kept him occupied till a bodiless female voice reminded everyone to get ready for launching. As he stepped into the tubular space from which he would rise into the arena, the stylist remembered to hand him his token. Instinctively he found one of the pockets the outfit provided to hold his token. Marten grinned slightly. No need to inventory them after all, the designers of the outfits had apparently taken natural accessing of the pocket into consideration. His nephew's baby bootie however reminded him, that whatever his doubts might be, his plan was the only way to go about it.

The platform began its ascend and Marten braced himself for the difference of light. Squinting slightly he didn't bother taking in his surroundings, his only object of attention being the location of the Cornucopia opening. He was about a quarter of a circle away from it. Not too bad a starting position, he decided. Certainly better than Marinus' position, whom he noticed four platforms to his left and as such almost on the back of the opening. From his spot, Marten could only see two more of their alliance, both with better starting positions though: Rufa, who stood three platforms to his right, and Tourmaline, who was another four platforms in that direction. Damn! She was almost exactly opposite the opening.

No! Marten shook his head. It didn't matter. All he needed was a weapon. Any weapon. Though a blade was to be preferred, as it made for a swifter killing. So the only real disadvantage he faced, was not knowing, which weapons were the easiest to reach. He could live with that.

So focussed was he, that he had totally missed Claudius Templesmith's opening words, but it didn't matter. It was the gong that mattered.

Then, finally, they were released from their platforms. Like a snake ready to strike, he shot off his platforms, his long legs taking him at breakneck speed to the all-promising opening. He neatly avoided the cluttered backpacks and single items strewn around the Cornucopia, as he raced across the hard packed ground. He more felt than saw others taking flight or risking a dash at the Cornucopia themselves. Marten elbowed a girl out of his path as she was trying to snatch a backpack from the ground. Just a few more steps...

Adrenaline was surging through his body as he finally reached the cracked-open ship's hull. The girls were there, too, with Marinus and Connor just a step or two behind. Each made a grab for the nearest weapon, or if they could manage, their favourite weapon. Marten saw Rufa go for some spears as Marinus grabbed a sword.

Swift! He had to act now or never!

He saw Tourmaline grab a serrated dagger, then sift through the pile to see if she could find her favourite weapon. Stupid girl! Favourites were for later.

Cursing himself as he fumbled around to grab a weapon, he finally gave up, just as Tourmaline triumphantly extracted a neat set of bolas from the pile.

Now or never!

With an almost desperate gleam in his eyes, he jumped his district partner and yanked the prized bolas out of her hands, wrapping them instantly around the treacherous girl's throat, pulling tight. Blood pounded in his ears, as he fought himself and the notion that he was not a coldblooded killer, yet he dared not to let go. Suddenly, searing pain shot through his left hand. The dagger! She was using her dagger to regain her freedom. But not on his watch! Though he could not prevent the injured hand relaxing the grip on the bolas' rope ever so slightly, he still was stronger than Tourmaline any day.

Anger coursed through his body and lent him the strength to ignore the pain and his conscience, and knock the dagger out of the girl's hand with his injured one. He might pay for this later, but this was a fight he could not lose.

The dagger fell to the ground, the clatter lost in the noise of the battle going on around him. With Tourmaline now defenceless, Marten finished what he'd begun. No more spouting nonsense, no more citing that this was where she belonged... Change might be necessary for their district, but not in the shape of a cheating, self-righteous one like her!

For good measure, Marten picked up the dagger and slit her throat. Just to make sure...

* * *

 _Jace Swallow, D7, 13Y_

Jace was way past being nervous, though still miles away from experiencing that eerie calm some people reported to have felt in the face of prospective imminent death. He couldn't take his mind off the fact that his life might now be measured only in minutes as opposed to hours, as had been still the case last night. Only the light weight of the piece of whetstone in his trousers pocket gave him a tiny bit of comfort and a miniscule spark of hope that he might make it through this day and the next and then, who knew? It actually prevented him from being a real basket case.

The whetstone also held a promise. He had kept his part of the bargain Blight had struck with him. He had gotten a decent training score, and though not a Seven was only one point short of it. When considering that Coralee, who was four years his senior, had also gotten a score no better than that Seven, his was a really good score. He had followed his mentor's lead for the interview and Blight had assured him that he had done a good job. So there should be some sponsors out there waiting to meet up with Blight today. Sponsors, who would get him the piece of metal Blight had promised him to craft his own axe or hatchet. All he needed to do was survive long enough to receive that sponsor gift.

His stylist luckily left him to himself, after having frowned at the fact that the arena outfit was so not bosky. As if the tree outfit for the parade wasn't bosky enough to last anyone a whole year. At least the mostly sand coloured outfit was comfortable.

However, as the launch pad took him up into the arena and Jace was able to get his first look around, he suddenly wished the outfit was a lot boskier than it was. Because, like the outfit, the arena was totally lacking anything which resembled a tree. How was he supposed to fashion a shaft for his axe in such an environment? The scraggy bushes he could see certainly hadn't the strength to last a single blow with the axe's head, whereas the scrap metal he had previously worried about was available in abundance. Maybe he could fashion a shaft from a metal rod? But judging by the state of the ship wreck which posed as Cornucopia, Jace began to fear that it would be impossible to find a rod which was not thoroughly covered with rust.

As his eyes darted around, trying to find a solution for his dilemma, he got increasingly worried. The only feasible thing to do, it appeared, was to make a dash for the Cornucopia, where he could plainly see something which could only be the shaft of a ready-to-use hatchet. But Blight had been insistent that he turn around and run.

Maybe he could grab a few items close to his platform and then make it look like he was going to take flight, only to sneak back the moment all dangerous tributes were too busy killing someone else to notice him. Of course there might be no axe or hatchet left by then, but given the circumstances, Jace felt he had to try.

He had reached this conclusion just in time, as a mere three seconds later the gong sounded and the mad scramble began. He swiftly bent down to pick up a bit of cloth, next came a cap just two steps further on, then he moved to snatch a small net filled with two apples. Now that was a valuable item! It would provide food and liquids and the net would allow him to try his hand at fishing. Now, if he could also get a bottle...

Perking up his ears, Jace tried to establish the general situation. Under the overall rumble of feet pounding the hard ground, he distinctly heard what could only be the clatter of equipment. The first people had reached the Cornucopia. Time for him to make his move. Up and away... Spotting a cluster of bushes not too far off, he headed straight for it, though halfway there, he looked back over his shoulder to assess the fighting. All Careers seemed to be engaged by other tributes, none was paying any attention to a small boy like him running away. No doubt they thought they could take him out easily later. So back he went.

It was difficult to keep an eye on all the Careers, and the struggles and cries and clashes of weapons almost drowned out all other sounds. Jace thought he detected some whirring noise, but kept pressing onwards, swift as the bird whose name he bore. Just a few mo...

* * *

 _Marinus Bolen, D2, 18Y_

It was supposed to be simple. Step on the platform to be taken up to the arena. Listen politely to Claudius Templesmith welcoming everyone to the games. Then wait patiently for the next sixty seconds. Run to the Cornucopia and let the adrenaline take over.

It was far from simple when one stood almost to the backside of the Cornucopia opening, seeing not even a hint of the treasures stashed away inside. So he had no idea which weapons would be waiting there for him. While most of the times, the gamemakers provided them with a regular assortment of weapons, which included spears, knives and swords, those weapons were not guaranteed. Yet those were the weapons easiest to handle for him, so it would have been nice to be able to mentally prepare himself for a different weapon, should he be denied his preferred choice. Although they were all placed equidistantly from the opening, he felt that not facing the opening made the ground he had to cover seem longer than for someone closer to the opening like Marten whom he could see four places to his right. The damned ship wreck made it even unable to judge how the others of his alliance were placed in relation to him and the opening with the exception of Marten. For all he knew, Connor was placed exactly opposite the opening and could use those sixty seconds to locate his preferred weapon so he could head straight for it, once the gong sounded.

Well, there was only one thing he could do: be faster than the rest of them. Marinus felt that it would be within his abilities to outrun the others. After all, he had always bested the rest of his class back home. And wouldn't it be nice to show the others that he was the best by simply reaching the Cornucopia's opening first?

Finally the gong sounded. Frantically Marinus raced forward, but the items strewn around the arena obscured the straight path, prevented him from reaching full speed. And while the others, too, faced that problem, they, again were also powered by adrenaline and try as he might, Marten managed to keep half a step ahead of him.

No, he must not let this make an impact on his self-confidence. So what if he'd been beaten in the race for the weapons? There were enough for their alliance. It was the Games that counted. And the Games had only just begun. Though Marinus couldn't help being at least a little bit relieved to see that he had beaten Connor in the race, as the other guy had apparently been placed on an equally disadvantageous platform.

Enough of that, he chided himself. It was time to pick a weapon. Instinct kicked in as he subconsciously identified the available swords by the hilts sticking out of the pile. Almost without thinking about it, he moved forward as his fingers coiled around the hilt which promised a decent blade length as opposed to that toothpick-like gladius. It came up as a bastard sword and while a bit longer than the arming sword he had perhaps hoped for, Marinus was happy with his choice. Unsheathing it, he turned around, just as a girl, who was not part of their alliance, came around the edge of the opening. His mind recognized her as the angry girl from District 10, who had refused to learn the weapons she had tried out properly.

Then, why was she here? Yes, she was fast; he had to grant her that. But didn't she know that making a go for the Cornucopia like that was heading to certain death? Again, training took over, as Marinus raised his weapon and with a neat turn of his upper body sliced through her jugular, as she came within reach, obviously going for an axe.

The sight of it almost made him gag and he broke out in a sweat. He had just killed someone. He had just... As he looked around to find a picture to override the image of the dead girl in his head, he saw Marten strangle Tourmaline. Why? She was one of their own, wasn't she? Why weaken their own alliance? Then again, this move showed without a doubt what Marten was capable of. How ruthless he could be. That they should never underestimate him. That he had the mental strength to go against any of them. Had he really fooled Connor and him like that? Letting the two of them battle for leadership during training while he planned to eradicate whatever they thought they had achieved with this one demonstration of power? The bloody dagger Marten now held in his hand seemed to only underline this. As for choosing Tourmaline... well, all things considered, it was also a strategic point Marten might have been making, as his district partner was the weakest of their group. So while Marten had showed his real power, he had not weakened the alliance too badly.

As these thoughts as well as the last remnants from his own inability to handle the death of the girl at his hands with equanimity coursed through his mind, Marinus found that he could live quite well with Marten claiming leadership of their alliance.

* * *

 _Rodi Kozen, D8, 16Y_

Rodi's mind kept returning over and over again to the kiss Linley had given him just before it had been his turn to face the gamemakers in his private session. He had not had a chance to talk to her since then and it had felt like pure torture. Already being separated from her, just after this kiss, had solved whatever doubts he might have had over his own feelings, and had felt way too long. Why, oh why did the schedule of the games confine the tributes to their mentors a whole day without any chance to interact with their fellow tributes? Not that the interview day was that much better. He might have been able to see Linley as they were all seated in a semi-circle on the stage, but he was not able to talk to her. A few gestures, smiles and signals were the most they had been able to exchange. Already these had his heart soaring and he was actually looking forward to the Games' beginning. As such he was in a surprisingly good mood as his stylist chattered away while they were in the launch room, even though she mentioned Chalen and her impact on the audience rather frequently. Still, she made also an effort to take his needs into account, so all in all it was a comparatively pleasant atmosphere.

"The jacket has an insulating layer, which points towards some cold nights," she expertly declared, fingering the fabrics as she unpacked the uniform. "The shirt though is designed to allow the skin to breathe, so the days might be quite warm. It wouldn't go amiss to see if you can find or fashion something like a hat to keep you from getting a sun stroke."

These hints were actually helpful and Rodi thanked her wholeheartedly.

Eventually it was time for him to take his place on the platform. As soon as his eyes got accustomed to the bright sun light, he searched from Linley. Relief flooded him, as he perceived her five platforms to his right. Though he was able to just catch a glimpse of the abundant provisions stashed inside the Cornucopia, being within view of Linley was a much more welcome sight.

Instantly he tried to catch Linley's eye, and as she obviously had been looking for him, he was soon starting some signal exchange. Which direction should they head? Join up within view of the Cornucopia and then head straight in the opposite direction of it? Or take flight individually and appoint some landmark in the distance as meeting point?

Linley gestured to the supplies strewn around the Cornucopia, pointing especially for the backpacks. She then signalled him, that they would need some of those water bottles or they'd be screwed.

Rodi nodded. In light of what they had learned about the arena during training, just running away would not take them far. As such he began looking for backpacks located near his platform. He was quite sure that all backpacks contained water bottles, as the gamemakers had to make it look as if every tribute had a chance surviving in this arena. He was also quite certain that if they wanted some of the better water bottles, they would have to take a chance with one of the backpacks closer to the Cornucopia. But he wasn't sure if this was worth the risk. Another problem was that he was surrounded by tributes who were at least as strong as himself and mostly older. And while the girl from District 4 to his direct right and the boy from District 1 two platforms to his left would head straight for the Cornucopia, the girl from District 7 directly to his right might like him just aim for the backpacks. So he might not be given much of a choice, but be forced to take his luck with some backpacks closer to the ship, though of course in the opposite direction of the Cornucopia opening and closer to Linley.

With these thoughts in mind, it was exactly what he did, as the gong sounded and everyone was running everywhere. He had located a backpack which almost brought him in the direct path of the boy from District 2 who had been on the platform left to Linley, but he had already known that he was taking a calculated risk with his attempt to secure that backpack. What he had not considered was that someone else might have set their eyes on that particular backpack, much less that that person might be Chalen, who had been next to the boy from District 1. Why was she risking so much? Surely she knew that there'd be probably enough sponsor money for her to even buy her one of those bottles.

Mad at her putting herself at risk in such an unnecessary way, he harshly pushed her out of the way, nearly causing her to stumble. "Get out of here!" he hissed fiercely.

The wounded look she shot him was slightly unsettling him, but really, he was doing her a favour, Rodi decided. What use was all her sponsor money if she got killed within the first minutes of the games? Although he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't help himself watching her a moment longer to make sure she got the message and actually escaped. Only then did he lunge forward to snatch up that precious backpack.

Having achieved this goal, he then looked up to locate Linley. It was mere luck that he first glanced in the opposite direction and as such saw the girl from District 2 emerge from the Cornucopia, a couple of hatchets in hand. Never before had those throwing axes looked so threatening. Though as his eyes found Linley and his brain realized that she was directly in the throwing-line of those hatchets, it was as if his heart stopped. Without really realizing, what he was doing, he started shouting her name and waving frantically for her to get away, while he moved towards her and directly into the line of fire himself. Seeing her scramble backwards, her mouth open in horror, yet unharmed, was the last picture his mind registered before the hatchet impacted in his back. At least he had saved his girl...

* * *

 _Abelia Shale, D2, 18Y_

Like her allies, about the first thing she did as soon as she entered the arena was to locate the others of her group as well as determining her position with regards to the Cornucopia opening. She could see Tourmaline four spaces to her left and almost directly opposite the opening. She also could see Connor three platforms to her right. So while she was perhaps not given the best starting position, she also didn't have the worst. Not that it really mattered, the Cornucopia held more than enough weapons for all of them. And though the chances were slim, she still hoped that there would be a bow and arrow, as well as she hoped that none of the others would contest her claim to them then. Otherwise she would look for weapons she could easily carry around. As such the boys would be more than welcome to any swords as would be those two from District 4 to any spears.

With her path for the first minutes of the Games all mapped out, Abelia then used the sixty seconds wait to familiarize herself with the arena as best as possible. Which, with her view largely being blocked by the Cornucopia ship in front of her, was not really easy. But glancing over her shoulders, she saw some hills and a lake behind her, the lake to the right, the hills to the left. Both were interesting features. The lake would not only provide water, but should also contain some fish, allowing them to stretch out the food provided by the gamemakers. The hills would allow them to get a better view of the whole of the arena, though as it did not appear to provide a lot of cover, it might be wise to use the Cornucopia itself as base this year, but that depended on what the far side of that ship provided as view.

Finally the sixty seconds were up. Running as fast as she could, Abelia made her way to the Cornucopia. As soon as she reached the opening, whatever hopes she had for bow and arrow were crashed. Well, at least she had prepared herself for that eventuality. Based on their performance during training, it was not surprising to see Rufa go for the light spears and Connor claim the throwing knives. Although when it came to throwing weapons she herself preferred knives as well, now was not the time to haggle with Connor to get at least half of the knives. There would be time for that later. As such, the only effective throwing weapons left for her – and she definitely preferred long range weapons – were the hatchets. So hatchets it would be.

From the corner of her eye, Abelia saw Marten attack Tourmaline, and though irritated for a moment, she still had not forgiven the snooty girl for her derisive stance on survival skills to feel particularly sorry for her. And surely, Marten as her district partner, knew the girl far better than any of them, so if he thought it necessary to get rid of her, who was she to stop him? It also meant one less ally she'd have to worry about later, though Marten himself had now shown that he certainly was not to be underestimated. All the more so as all the while there was no madness in his eyes, which might have indicated that the games had already gotten the better of him and they would have to put him down next lest he become a real threat to their alliance.

Leaving Marten to do as he pleased, she stepped outside the Cornucopia to do her part of the job of decimating the tribute field. While most of the tributes stayed away from the Cornucopia, it always amazed her, how many tributes actually lingered around in hopes of getting at least some provisions in form of backpacks. As such it was among the loiterers that her first hatchet found its prey with the boy from District 8 going down, intercepting the weapon that had been aimed at his girlfriend. It might not have been the tribute Abelia had had in sight, but it was still one more dead tribute, which brought victory closer. Weighing the next hatchet in her hand, she contemplated if she should still try for the girl, when something in the periphery of her vision caught her attention. Despite the field around the Cornucopia swiftly emptying of tributes who were not members of their alliance, there was a boy actually taking the time to open the backpack he was crouching next to and rifling through its contents. Didn't he realize that nothing these packs contained could be so important that it justified immediate examination? Then again, Abelia recognized the boy as the tribute from District 12 who had already made a not so favourable impression on her during training by focussing solely on one station, with the exception of learning about the water bottles the final morning. Ignoring all other tributes, Abelia decided then and there that such a stupid tribute was better put out of his misery now. The boy didn't even see the weapon coming, as he triumphantly pulled out one of the better water bottles from the backpack.

* * *

 _Linley Johnson, D12, 16Y_

Linley felt as if the fabric of her world was being torn apart. It was like Reaping Day all over again. While every youth, who entered the square that day, knew that there was a distinct possibility of being reaped, deep down everyone believed that it would not happen to them, that it would happen to someone else. As such, the disbelief over being actually reaped turned into devastating agony, once the reality set in as one was torn from one's family and friends.

Upon entering the arena today, Linley knew, same as every other tribute, that there was a distinct possibility that some of them, including herself, would not live long enough to see another star-lit night sky. But again, except for the rare suicidal tribute, they all, including her, believed that they would survive that day and that it would be others who died. To then see the very person, one had been looking forward to spending time with – even if it was in a deadly arena – being killed by a hatchet to the back was shattering.

Rodi! A scream pierced her ears above the general din and a few seconds passed before she realized that it was she who screamed. But even with this realization she was unable to stop screaming. It was as if she could hold on to Rodi as long as she just kept screaming. His smile... his eyes... his caring ways and encouraging words...

Linley still remembered vividly the anxiety that had held her captive ever since she had followed her heart and had kissed him just as he prepared to leave for his private session, not knowing what his feelings were and no chance to speak to him. She was sure she had not heard a word in ten of what her stylist and the escort had said in terms of advice for the interview over the next two days. All that had mattered had been seeing Rodi again. Seeing his warm smile as they took their seats on the stage had made her heart soar and resulted in her positively glowing – something even Caesar had remarked upon. It had actually had her anticipating the Games with something bordering on delight.

And at first everything had appeared to go according to plan. They had been placed comparatively advantageously on the side of the Cornucopia. Even though Rodi would have been able to glimpse some of the items stashed inside the ship from his launch pad, they had agreed beforehand that, no matter how tempting, they would not go for it. The water bottles though were a must and as the first glance at the items arranged around the Cornucopia had told them that these would only be available through the backpacks, backpacks they were to have.

Never though had Linley expected the Careers to appear so soon on the sides of the Cornucopia, weapons in hand. Instead she had anticipated that the fighting directly in front of the opening would occupy them a little longer and allow Rodi and her to make their escape. She had not even seen the immediate danger until Rodi had shouted. But by then the weapon had already left the caster's hand and Rodi...

The scream still on her lips, she scrambled backwards, trying to escape this nightmare, though her eyes were irrevocable glued to Rodi's fallen form, as if by the sheer strength of her gaze she could make him stand up again, but really only keeping the nightmare alive. From the corner of her eye, Linley saw the girl, who had thrown the hatchet, withdraw and focus on another tribute. As welcome as that reprieve was, Rodi's sacrifice had shown her just how omnipresent the danger was. Just because one foe had turned away didn't mean all of them were ignoring her.

She knew deep down that she should turn around and run; that being able to see where she was going would make her attempt to flee all the more effective, yet she felt unable to do so. Already a new threat was looming at the edge of her vision, another Career ready to hurtle her weapon at her.

No! She couldn't let this happen. She couldn't let Rodi's sacrifice be in vain.

Finally turning around, her foot got caught by one of the very backpacks she had stayed for. As she fell to the ground, she heard the knife passing over her head. Never before had she been so glad to stumble. Getting back up however would cost precious seconds, seconds she did not have. Desperation flooded her, as a crazy idea entered her mind. Maybe, Linley thought, she could grab the knife and position both knife and herself in such a way to allow herself to play possum and escape when the Careers abandoned the battlefield to allow the hovercrafts to collect the dead. But could she pull this off convincingly? Not with the knife just thrown... Still, she instinctively lunged for the weapon which had fallen to the ground a couple of meters away. A second knife flew towards her as she lifted her upper body to locate the first knife and though she was able to twist to the side and prevent any vital organs being injured, the knife lodged in her arm. Continuing her twist, she fell to the ground, hoping to make it look as if she'd been killed. Being wounded was not a good thing in the arena, but it was better than being dead. Linley knew she could not remove the weapon and lying on it to conceal the truth of the injury hurt like hell, but it was her only hope. Commanding herself to keep still and breathe as shallowly as possible, she listened to the footsteps around her as the Careers secured the Cornucopia. Instinctively she held her breath as footsteps neared her location. Not daring to move, she never saw the sword raised above her prone body as Marten Cooper ensured, same as he had done with his district partner, that the dead were really dead, but she felt the hot sting as the weapon entered her body between the third and fourth rib, stabbing her heart...

* * *

 _District Eight - Melanie Kozen_

"Sleep well, little one," her father said as he put his daughter to bed, his voice heavy as he mourned his fallen son.

"Rodi?" Melanie asked as had been her wont ever since he had been reaped.

Tears glistened in the tall man's eyes. "Remember what Rodi had said about going on to the land of dreams?"

The little girl nodded vigorously.

"That's where Rodi is now."

"Is he also coming to my dreams?" Melanie queried.

"Only if you sleep now, princess," the father enthused.

"Okay." And with a smile the little girl put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes. As long as she could still see her big brother, everything was okay.

And though her other brothers scoffed at her, she held onto that belief, even as she grew old enough to understand the nature of death. Rodi had told her he'd be there for her in her dreams and indeed to her it felt as if he was watching over her from this faraway place only the dead could enter.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1


	29. Chapter 26 - Arena: Eighteen

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 26: The arena – Eighteen**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

Claudius had watched with bated breath as the gong released the tributes. Despite having watched these games all his life, the first few minutes were always special and every year he found himself caught up in the events shown on the screen.

Half an hour later, the Bloodbath was over, though the cannons had yet to sound. That first day they always waited for a while to see if some tributes, who had fled the launch scene in the beginning, had just feigned their flight and would sneak back as soon as the battle sounds dimmed, hoping that the winners of that first battle were pursuing other tributes and leave the treasure of the Cornucopia unattended for them to raid. But today it seemed that for once those, who had run away as soon as they could without being in danger of being blown to pieces, had really meant to put distance between them and the Big Alliance, which once more reigned supreme at the Cornucopia.

On the screen, the boy tribute from District 1 was ensuring with ruthless efficiency that those fallen to their weapons were truly dead, small as their number was. It was perhaps this which surprised Claudius more than the boy's actions towards his district partner, though this kill was sure to feature heavily in Caesar's expert round tonight. The boy's mentor was sure to be invited as one of the experts, but Claudius actually was more looking forward to the input from trading card game representative. He just loved these cards and tried every year to get the whole set, though of course the victor's card was the most exclusive one. And if the boy from District 1 one, this would be one of those cards that were nearly unbeatable as the company always took the overall performance into account as well as their final position.

Claudius smiled as he thought of his children, who by were getting old enough to share in this interest and were sure to pester him to buy them packs as soon as they became available, though it would be a long way before they could beat his master deck. After all, with the individual years being compatible, it was hard to beat their old man.

Turning his attention back to the screens, Claudius went through various cameras to give the audience a first glimpse at who would group together to reveal other alliances apart from the classic one. Already he could show those following the events on the screens at home how the two fourteen-year-old boys met up and continued trudging over the sandy-grassy ground towards one of the ships. They even seemed to be joking and laughing, something which would guarantee them some more screen-time than other tributes who were just walking around. The audience wanted to be entertained and showing only gruesome stuff would entertain them only for so long. Joking tributes would balance that one out nicely. In the other direction, he could see another interesting group forming... Yes, while the initial fight might have been over quicker than in most years, the games promised to be interesting.

* * *

 _Griffin Doyle, D6, 18Y_

It was amazing how much of what Maarck had predicted had come true. Griffin was honest enough to himself that had his ally's analysis not prepared him for a dry and salty arena, he might have felt some desperation at the sight which had greeted him as he was lifted up into the arena.

As he looked around, he had been just able to catch a glimpse of both Coralee and Maarck. Realizing that he himself was kind of in the middle, he raised his arms and pointed behind him with his thumbs, hoping that his allies would see it. Even if it gave away their direction to the Careers, it was more important to get together first. They could always veer off into another direction afterwards.

Griffin smiled when he then turned his attention to the Cornucopia, as he could see an open case of throwing stars placed prominently on top of the stash, glistening in the sun as if to tell him 'come and get me'. But only a fool would fall for this trap. The water bottles – the better type –, peeking out from some outer compartments of some backpacks of that mound, were more tempting. Yet again, Griffin knew a trap when he saw one. Also, though not visible, he understood how crucial water would be in these games, so he was sure the gamemakers had spread out enough water bottles around the Cornucopia to give all tributes an equal chance. Most likely they were packed away in the backpacks. Bright red for the backpacks was a rather flashing colour in this environment, but that was just how the games were.

The gong sounded and snatching up the nearest two backpacks, Griffin sprinted away from the Cornucopia as fast as he could. Even though he had managed to turn around and run before the Careers had reached the weapons, he had no intention of allowing a thrown knife to make contact with him, so speed was important.

Only when his breath grew short as his lungs burned and he got stitch, did he slow down to a hike, hoping that Maarck and Coralee would soon catch up with him.

Eventually he heard a laboured breath behind him, calling his name.

"Maarck," he greeted his ally with a smile. "Brilliant analysis!" Griffin complimented the other boy.

"Wish I had been wrong," the other grumbled. "I feel like I've been breathing dust and sand for the past kilometre."

Looking over his shoulder, Griffin realized that he was indeed stirring up some dust and sand as he walked along. He instantly realized that even if they veered off from their original path, the Careers would have no problem locating them. "Let's see if we can find a water course. The lake I saw behind you at the Cornucopia has to get its water from somewhere and I doubt that the gamemakers would provide us with only the lake as water source. Would make for rather short games and we can't have that."

His wry humour elicited a short laugh from Maarck, which ended in a painful cough as the dust in his throat made itself known once more. "Definitely water," Maarck rasped.

Looking around ahead of them, the two soon pointed out: "Over there."

Laughter bubbled up in Griffin's throat as they had pointed in opposite directions. "Looks like we even get to choose which water course we want to follow. Maybe because of the salt content the gamemakers ensured that there was plenty of water available – only not of drinkable quality without those fancy bottles."

"In which case we'd better hope that our packs contain some," Maarck said, pointing to his own single backpack, though he had also managed to grab a loaf of bread.

"I'm quite confident they do," Griffin assured him. "How about we pick the southern water course? It looks as if there's another ship wreck not too far from it which we could use as base."

"Wouldn't it still be pretty close to the Cornucopia?" Maarck queried.

"Depends on what you consider pretty close," Griffin said. "Would it be close enough that the Careers can reach us within half a day's walk or so? Most likely. But would they constantly walk this way once they learn that we hold that ship and intend to take out anyone who strays too close, including them? I don't think so. If the ship is suitable, we'd have the advantage over them."

"Sure, and the gamemakers would exactly provide us with a suitable, that is defendable, ship," a new voice was heard from behind the two boys, who had, despite their ongoing discussion, moved in the direction of the southern water course.

"Glad you could make it," Griffin greeted Coralee.

"Almost didn't," the girl confessed. "The boy from District One has a sharp elbow and a lot of strength. I was lucky that he only pushed me out of the way as he made for the Cornucopia. But it was enough to see me hit the ground and loose the backpack I had just wanted to pick up. However, I didn't dare to linger long enough to attempt a second try, I simply got the hell out of it."

"Good thing then that I got two packs," Griffin said.

"Just for that I volunteer for the middle watch for the next week," Coralee said sincerely.

Griffin could see that it was eating at her that she hadn't been able to come out of the Bloodbath without so much as an extra piece of cloth or some other barely useful item. But to him having both his allies alive was worth far more than any items. If worst came to worst, they would stoop to hunting down other tributes for their possessions. They'd do what was necessary to make it. Though, as a small voice reminded him, there could be only one victor in the end; that their alliance was doomed from the beginning as even in the best case there would come a time when it would be inevitable that they split up. But he ruthlessly quelled this voice, telling himself that it would be many days before it came to that point. "Let's first find our fort so you have something to watch over," he said with a grin and together they trudged off to the water course and beyond to the ship wreck they saw at the distance.

* * *

 _Evan Harris, D5, 16Y_

Evan got worried as he looked around him and could only see Alicia and Haden from where he had been placed in the ring of tributes around the Cornucopia, but not Chalen. How were they to meet up if they couldn't see each other properly? Why were the gamemakers so cruel as to place them so far apart from each other? But then again, maybe it was their own tactic backfiring at them. Maybe they had been too convincing where Chalen had been concerned. But without Chalen, and her sponsor money, their alliance would not be as strong as he had envisioned it. Yes, he and Alicia had been promised some sponsor aid in exchange for his talk to Finnick on the third day, but what if they got injured before and beyond Alicia's abilities with only the arena's resources at their disposal?

No, he simply had to trust that Chalen either could see Haden from her spot, which obviously had to be on the other side of that stupid ship, or would see them running off together in the same direction and follow their cluster. As such, as soon as the games began in earnest, Evan sprinted off in the direction of Alicia, snatching up items as he went whenever he could, pleased to see that Alicia was making her way in Haden's direction.

They both reached the slow boy almost at the same time, at which point Alicia simply grabbed Haden's hand. "Let's go!" she said, but Haden seemed to be rooted.

"We have to wait for Kersia, too." The stubborn boy said.

Evan wanted to knock Haden over, or at least knock some sense into him, but he knew that they didn't have the time for that. "Remember the rats? They have reached the other side of the ship now, where all the weapons are. We have to get out of here to set up rat traps and such! Kersia is most likely only waiting for the right moment to pick up a backpack or some other items we need for the traps and will follow us. But we have to run now before the rats turn on us!"

The rat part obviously did the trick and Haden, even though still looking over his shoulder all the while, followed Alicia's lead.

Instinctively Evan led them in the direction of another wrecked ship he could see in the distance. It wasn't ideal, he knew, as anything within sight of the Cornucopia and the potential base of the Careers was rather dangerous, but they might wait for Chalen on the far side of the ship and go through the provisions they had managed to get.

They had crossed more than half the distance to the ship, when the cannon started firing off. Silently, they all counted. Six...

Next to him, Alicia sniffled quietly. "Six... six of us are already dead. So many..."

Evan shook his head vigorously. "Six is not many. Think about it. Often more than six die during the first hours of the games. The past few years it was always eight or nine tributes, who didn't make it to where we are – exploring the arena. Fewer tributes also mean the chances are higher that Chalen made it out alive and is currently trying to catch up on us."

"And Kersia," interjected Haden.

Evan cast Alicia a knowing glance.

She took her cue and said. "You are right, Haden. But you know that she can't run that fast because of her lungs. It will take her a bit longer to catch up; though I'm sure she'll find us eventually."

Just as Haden nodded, another loud detonation thundered through the arena.

"What was that?" Alicia asked, fear creeping into her voice. Haden was looking not much better.

Evan glanced anxiously around. It wasn't like the gamemakers to spring one of their traps on the tributes this early into the games. Not even if the death toll of the bloodbath was too low for their liking. The traps were usually employed only if a tribute strayed too far from the herd or if the total number had dropped so low that any regular hunting down of a tribute no longer worked. But right now there were still plenty of tributes about to ensure fights for the audience's entertainment and none of them had gotten so far as to be considered out of reach.

To his far left, he could make out a cloud of dust rising up into the sky, but it was too far away to see what was causing the dust eruption or if it was in any way connected to the detonation.

"Come on," he eventually said. "Looks like it was a one-time occurrence. Maybe there's some kind of ravine at the far end of the arena and the cannon firing caused an echo down there which resulted in a rock avalanche. In any case we'd better move on to the ship and get out of sight of any unfriendly pursuer."

Yet it was another two hours, before they reached the abandoned rusty hull of the ship. They were positively parched as the arena provided next to no reprieve from the bright sun shining overhead. As such all three of them were more than eager to crawl into the broken structure for at least some shade, no matter how unstable and therefore dangerous the wreck might be.

"I am thirsty," Haden whined.

"I know," Alicia said to him. "So am I. But now that we are here, we can rest for a bit, cool down and see about getting some water."

As opposed as Evan had been, back home, to take the little girl on as an ally, he was now glad for her patience with Haden. Not that he would have chosen Haden as an ally without Alicia's insistence, though he had to acknowledge the boy's skills with a knife. But Alicia's patience now meant that she would be similarly patient with him, should he require her first aid skills and be all whiny.

The examination of their items was rather quick and not as promising as they had hoped for. While Evan had managed to grab a backpack, he was the only one and though it did contain a water bottle, it was one of the compartmentalized ones. It would be hard enough to keep one person hydrated with this bottle, never mind three. The pack also contained a thin blanket, a sewing kit and a small bag of nuts. He also had scooped up a wrapped package which proved to be a minor first aid kit – much to Alicia's delight – and a length of rope. The only other contribution came surprisingly from Haden in form of a net containing half a dozen apples.

When questioned, the boy shrugged and said: "I like apples."

"Good thing you do!" Evan praised him and instantly handed out an apple to both Alicia and Haden. "It's not water, but the apples' juice will help a bit with our thirst till we can find water."

As they munched on their apples, Evan decided that they should not wait too long in this wreck but rather continue on to the next ship a little further off, as he felt too close to the Cornucopia and the Careers in this ship.

* * *

 _Connor Tobin, D4, 18Y_

By unspoken agreement, the boys had begun to drag the dead away from the Cornucopia while the girls gathered what items were still left around the old ship. Though the hull was obviously broken in some parts, the ship itself seemed sturdy enough to make it a decent base and it spared them having to drag all the items to some other place.

Connor had been surprised when he had seen Marten drag the dead body of Tourmaline out of the Cornucopia. He directed an inquiring look at his ally.

Marten shrugged his shoulders as if to say 'What would you have me do?', but he then elaborated. "She was a liability."

Still Connor did not fully understand.

"When you reached the Cornucopia, what did you do?" Marten asked.

"The obvious. I grabbed the first throwing weapons I could lay my hands on and then proceeded to decimate the competition. Though I won't deny that I was happy to find a set of throwing knives within easy reach."

Marten nodded. "Tourmaline already had a dagger in hands, yet instead of attacking the weaker tributes with it, she went through the stash to look for her stupid bolas. As if any of us would have disputed her claim on those. But these actions were more along the line to prove my impression of her."

"So it was not a spur of the moment decision, but a planned thing?" Connor wanted to know. Sure, that girl's behaviour in the Cornucopia was a bit unusual for one of their alliance, but it was not unknown that even a trained tribute such as them lost their focus for a moment at the prospect of laying hands on a favourite weapon. As such he could not help sounding a bit accusatory.

"Remember when you suggested that we all become back-up for some survival skills? She volunteered to do the edible insect part, only to quit because she couldn't bear the sight, never mind the thought of eating them."

Connor nodded. He clearly recalled the annoyance he had felt at the girl when she had mentioned it during lunch.

"So, what if I now told you that she cheated her way into the games? I mean, it wouldn't be uncommon for anyone who considered volunteering to plan on refusing other volunteers if they are reaped. But Tourmaline was not your usual volunteer material. So why had she planned on refusing a volunteer? And what were her chances of being reaped to be in a position to refuse the volunteers? Even if she had taken out the maximum tesserae to increase the chance of her name being plucked out of the bowl, the chances were relatively low." He then proceeded to share with Connor the revelation he had had after the shower incident.

Connor's eyes widened. Adding all these facts up, he could see how Marten had arrived at the conclusion that Tourmaline would be more of a liability than an asset. Also her motivation seemed questionable and as Marten shared more of his life in District 1 with him, Connor could see the parallels to his own district. Too many young people were kept drifting through life without purpose after they were no longer eligible for the games. And while both he and Marten saw the whole picture including the reality which awaited people after school, Tourmaline had acted like a spoilt child who didn't get the sweet she wanted. "Well, maybe you are right and we are better off without her." He grinned. "Not as if we could change the situation now..."

Back at the Cornucopia the girls had meanwhile located some bottled water, just enough so they could all refresh themselves before heading out to fill the other water bottles, they had found in the numerous backpacks they had managed to secure.

"I think we should stick to getting water for now and then inventory our possessions," Abelia suggested.

This was met with raised eyebrows, but the girl from District 2 just shook her head. "Guys, you all dragged those bodies away. You know full well how hot it is outside and adding physical exertion to this will only make it hotter. Even inside this ship, with plenty of shade, we can feel the rising temperatures. So do you really want to risk a heat stroke just to take down one or two more tributes today?"

"But the longer we wait, the more chance we give them to escape, and the harder it will be to track them down." Marinus countered.

"Not really," Connor said. "The arena is pretty barren. From what I could see it looks as if those ship wrecks are the only shelter available. To move from one to the other makes you pretty visible, even though you might be able to conceal yourself among some of the scruffy bushes if you crouch low."

"And the others will expect us to pursue them, pushing on regardless of the heat, so if we catch them at night, when their body forces them to rest, it'll be all the easier for us." Abelia added.

Marten nodded. "The night would also make us less visible as we would be now. So, yes, your suggestion is sound, Abelia. Let's see what we have, assemble a light pack for us to take with us when we set out tonight, and get some rest during the hottest hours."

It rankled Connor a bit that, going by how much weight Marten's word had with the others, he obviously had claimed the leadership position, but the way he had dealt with Tourmaline showed that he really had it in him to do what was needed – an undisputable quality a leader needed. It had also become noticeable that he was thorough and looking ahead, when Marten had ensured that all slain tributes were dead. Though to be honest, the way Marten acted it was more that he had claimed the spot subconsciously and would still let others make suggestions and adopt them if they had merit. Perhaps their alliance didn't really need an obvious leader; perhaps they could really work as a team, complementing each other with their individual skills.

Without really meaning to Marinus and Connor exchanged a glance and both shrugged. Not what either of them had hoped for during training as they had vied for leadership, but they could live with it. Though Connor had one more thing to add, before they could see about taking a nap. "We should still have someone taking watch. We wouldn't want some other tributes sneak back and make a go for our supplies."

* * *

 _Madeline Parker, D11, 18Y_

Apparently the gamemakers delighted in tormenting tributes. Who was she kidding? Of course they delighted in it. And if not, well, others at the Capitol sure did, and it was the gamemakers' job to ensure these people got their entertainment. Why else would she find herself on the platform just left of Griffin's and in full view of the bounty stashed inside the ship's hull that served as Cornucopia?

Maddy really would have liked to exchange at least a meaningful look with Griffin, but sensed that this would have to wait till their promised meet-up. Right now assessing the situation was more important. She would need some provisions, but instinctively knew that whatever worthwhile objects were in her close proximity, Griffin would also try for. He might have been honest when it came to the alliance proposal, but till she became part of that group, he would look for his needs first. Not that she could blame him for this attitude; it wasn't as if she did not have the same intention. And while she was confident that the little boy from District 7 on her other side was no real competition, Griffin could simply physically overpower her, future alliance be damned. Where did this leave her? To make matters worse, they were flanked by Careers on either side...

She shook her head. Much as she disliked it, it looked as if she'd have to flee first and worry about provisions later. Maybe even going so far as to try and steal something from the Careers later in the day. Due to her meeting with Griffin on the third day, she couldn't stray too far from the Cornucopia anyway.

So, without so much as a glance at the available items, Maddy braced herself to turn and sprint away as soon as the minute wait was over. Being the first to escape the Bloodbath had its advantage as it allowed her to choose the direction in which to flee without having to fear being taken down by a flying dagger so much. As such, Maddy decided to head for the cluster of hills east of the lake. The reeds and other plants covering them looked promising in terms of finding something edible among them and the hills would also allow her to disappear from direct line of sight of the Cornucopia. The scattered shipwrecks were such an obvious choice for seeking shelter that she felt it was quite reasonable to expect the Careers to head in this direction once they decided to set out and hunt other tributes down. And even if they went for the hills to get an elevated view of the arena for better orientation, in all likelihood they would not proceed past the first hill.

Eventually slowing to a walk, Maddy was almost at leisure to appreciate her surroundings. Yes, she was still in constant danger and had to pay attention lest she encounter a trap or another tribute, who had managed to catch up with her and would engage her in a fight, but the sandy ground and pale vegetation was so different from what she had known at home that the contrast was not unwelcome. Without the games, she might even consider the scenery pleasant.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the heat however forced her to cease her more or less aimless wanderings and look for a shaded place. But the hills were just hills, no caves, no overhanging cliffs, just hills. To make matters worse, she had by now come across at least two brooks, which tormented her with the water babbling in the beds while she was unable to quench her thirst. But a careful taste of the water had confirmed her suspicion; it was too salty for consumption without one of those bottles to treat it with first. Yet from her experience as harvest worker she knew that out in the bright sun and without proper hydration, she would soon enough suffer a sun stroke. Something, which would definitely be counterproductive to her plans of acquiring some supplies that night.

It was then that something the trainer at the first aid station at the Capitol had mentioned came back to her mind. While she might not need a bandage, maybe she could use parts of the clothing to help her make it through the day. Already something as simple as a wet cloth could bring relief and for this the salty water would work just as well. After some careful deliberation, she decided to remove her shirt and only wear the jacket over the underwear. The shirt she could turn into a headdress, even fashion it in such a way that it also cooled her neck.

Yet despite these measures, the day seemed to drag on endlessly. Never had Maddy welcomed nightfall as much as on this day, not even when she had worked for the first time a full day during harvest.

As soon as darkness had settled properly over the arena, she began following the brook she had used to keep cool back down to the lake. From there she could easily see the Cornucopia, which appeared to be abandoned. Apparently the Careers had already left for their nightly hunt. Either this or they had chosen another ship as base and had moved all supplies there and Maddy was actually watching the wrong wreck. Well, there was only one way to find out.

Cautiously she edged her way around the lake and closer to the Cornucopia till she could see that the supplies still seemed to be stashed inside. She thought she could even make out some movement inside the broken hull, but it made sense. If the Careers had actually chosen this ship as base, they would not leave their stash unguarded.

Now the tricky part was to distract the guard while being close enough to snatch some items and still retreat before the guard's focus was caught by herself. Just then, Maddy noticed some movement a little further away. At first she feared that it meant the other Careers were already returning, but on second look it turned out to be a single figure, who was obviously also attempting a stealthy approach to nick something from the Cornucopia. Maddy froze in the spot where she was. Had the other tribute already seen her? If so, would whoever it was abandon the approach? However, if Maddy had remained undetected, the other tribute might be just the distraction she had hoped for. Her conscience pricked at the idea of sacrificing someone else just so that she could get some much needed equipment, but she swiftly quieted that part of her mind. She hadn't told that other tribute to make a go for the Careers' supplies, that tribute had come up with the idea without her input. So she was not actually sacrificing someone, she was only using a situation, which would unfold anyway, to her best advantage.

Cautiously Maddy crept closer, constantly paying attention of where she put her feet so as not to alert anyone by a kicked stone or broken dry twig. Eventually she got near enough to see that the lone guard was the girl from District 2, who appeared to pass the time of her watch by organizing the supplies so they were ready at hand for the Careers anytime they set out. Maddy groaned inwardly. While this might be a great idea for the Careers, it made snatching enough supplies for herself so much harder. She mentally composed a list of items she would need. First and foremost was the water bottle. Then, time permitting, she would opt for a sleeping bag as the temperatures had already dropped considerably. Besides, she could use the sleeping bag to create a makeshift shelter, to carry items and do a lot of other useful things. Maybe she would even get so lucky as to swipe a knife or a spear. That would really give her a good starting point.

Trying to locate the items through the torn metal, Maddy flinched, when she heard a soft crack echo through the night. Instinctively she looked down at her own feet, but it hadn't been her, who had made the noise. Ducking deeper into the shadows of the ship she had almost reached, Maddy waited with baited breath for the Career to appear and zero in on the noise. Apparently the other approaching tribute had come to the conclusion that the game of stealth was up and with a wild cry lunged forward; intent of running straight for the supplies and hopefully startle the guard long enough to also escape. Maddy was not really sure if such a technique ever stood a chance to succeed. At the first sound of the broken twig, the other girl had been hastening towards the opening in the Cornucopia and within a split second of the first war cry sounding, she was readying her knife, sending it after the approaching tribute.

Luckily for Maddy, the tribute, whom she now recognized as the girl from District 3, was able to dodge the sharp edged projectile and the speed with which she approached left the Career no time to send out a second knife. Instead the two were all too soon engaged in a deadly embrace.

Maddy stood there, spellbound, until she mentally ordered herself to ignore the gruesome dance and get a grip on herself. She had a job to do. As quick as she could without drawing attention to herself, she slipped inside the Cornucopia. The water bottle was already filled with the precious liquid, and for a single moment she was actually tempted to take a swig right then and there. Yet with the noise of the fight outside, she was all too aware of the dangers lurking and so she ignored the temptation. The sleeping bag was harder to locate. Apparently the girl from District 2 had busied herself also setting up beds for her allies. When Maddy glimpsed them a good deal deeper into the ship's hull, she quickly decided against getting one of them. It would take her too long to get it. Instead she grabbed one of the conspicuous red backpacks – now empty – and picked up some fabric which had been dropped on top of a crate next to them. Stuffing both bottle and fabric into the pack, she made for the exit. It was then that she got really lucky, as three light spears were placed in a corner close to the opening. Apparently they were none of the Careers' preferred weapons... Snatching them up, she dashed from the Cornucopia. She knew the fight couldn't last much longer now, so she hadn't even a second to spare. Caution be damned, now it was all about putting some good distance between the Cornucopia and herself.

Apparently the fight had been closer to the end than she had hoped, because she was no more than ten meters from the ship, when a cannon sounded through the night, signalling the end of one of the girls. Maddy didn't dare look back to discover who the survivor was, but kept pressing on. A knife whizzed through the air behind her, telling her that the girl from District 3 hadn't made it, but luckily for her, the knife missed its target. Though her lungs burned, Maddy kept running, knowing she had to outrun the Career and not stop till she was so far away from the Cornucopia that the girl would cease pursuing her in favour of returning and resuming her watch over the supplies. Though they had provided her little shelter, the need of being out of sight led Maddy to return to the hills, and eventually she slowed down. She had made it.

* * *

 _Chalen Nimara, D8, 15Y_

Chalen brushed away some tears as she fled from the Cornucopia.

From the moment she had entered the hovercraft, which had taken her to the arena, tension had built up in her, winding her ever tighter. When the gong had released them, all she could think of was that she didn't want to leave there empty-handed. She somehow wanted to show everyone, Evan, Woof, but also the audience, that she didn't need to rely solely on sponsors to get her through the games. That she had it in her to get some items and make it out alive on her own. The big backpack had been just the thing. But then Rodi had pushed her away and coupled with his harsh words, something inside her snapped and tears were flowing down her cheeks.

It was more by luck that she didn't fall down as she tumbled over something, and it was more instinct than anything else that had her grab the offending item as she continued her path.

As running and crying were both exhausting and only the former guaranteed her continued existence in the ranks of the living, the tears soon dried up and she was able to see what she was carrying. It wasn't a backpack, but unwinding the rolled up item she found a legionnaire's cap with neck guard and a pair of sunglasses. Given the rising temperatures, these items were definitely useful. Putting both on, Chalen now felt just that tiny bit of confidence, that allowed her to look around and get her bearings.

She hadn't been able to see one of her allies from her place around the Cornucopia, but Kersia had obviously caught her looking around and had gestured to her right to indicate that from her place she could see at least some of them in that direction. As Chalen had not taken the time to check where this group was running, she now had to hope that by walking more or less in the direction away from the Cornucopia from where she assumed some of them had been standing, she would eventually meet them.

Keeping a good distance from that ship and constantly scanning her surroundings for any approaching unfriendly tributes, Chalen set out in search of her allies. She did not reach the ship wreck where they had paused in time to join them, but she was in time to see their figures diminishing in the distance. Alicia's size alone was a dead giveaway that she had found her allies. And while she was still on her own, she now knew that latest by the time they stopped again, she would be able to catch up. So with renewed vigour she continued on.

Dusk had set in, when Chalen finally reached the ship where she had last seen her allies. Being careful in her approach, she stopped a few meters away, trying to catch a sound of them, but everything seemed quiet. Was she to be disappointed again? Would she, upon looking through the ship, see her allies disappear on the far side with no option left for her but to follow them once more?

Just then a well-known voice called out: "Do you want to stand there all night or are you actually joining us?" It was Evan.

With a relieved, though tired smile, Chalen moved to the side of the ship where she could now see her ally's head poking out through a crack in the hull.

"Is Kersia also coming?" Haden asked her as soon as she had stepped inside.

Chalen shook her head. "I haven't seen her since we all were at the Cornucopia."

"You know that with her lungs she can't run as long as any of us could," Alicia said to calm the boy. "But I'm sure she saw in which direction we were going and is actually on her way here."

Chalen could at once see that while it was perhaps not right to lie to Haden, it was better than denying him that bit of hope he so desperately wanted to have. Meanwhile she could see Evan's gaze looking her up and down. She felt herself shrinking, knowing he would want to know if she had brought any supplies. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, though thankfully she was too exhausted for tears, despite feeling miserable enough. "I only got the hat and the glasses. I wanted to get a backpack, but Rodi pushed me away..."

Evan sighed, but then smiled encouragingly at her. "At least you got out alive. That's the most important. Though with only one of the lesser bottles, we are in a bit of trouble." He held up his bottle.

"At least this ship is close to a brook," Alicia informed her. "It's just a few meters on the other side of the ship. Even if we have to take turns all through the night, we will manage somehow."

"Alicia's right," Evan agreed. "And as we have to take shifts watching out while the others catch some sleep anyway, there'll be an opportunity for all of us to get something to drink."

"Can I volunteer for the first shift?" Chalen couldn't help but ask. She had not had a drink since the morning and wandering through the hot arena had left her seriously parched.

The way she had phrased her question, had Alicia hand her the bottle immediately. It might still be a bit salty, but it should be drinkable. "Do you also have a headache?" she asked, knowing the signs of dehydration well enough from helping her mother treat the old people in their district.

"Just a bit," Chalen confided. "Nothing too bad..."

Alicia nodded, but still had Evan go and refill the bottle rather than allow Chalen to do it, though she argued that as she had been the one to empty it, it should be her doing the refill. The small girl did agree though on Chalen taking the first shift. Evan quickly decreed he would take the midnight shift, leaving the third shift to Alicia and Haden.

With the nightfall, the arena became much more bearable and the night sky above was truly beautiful, Chalen thought as she walked across the deck of the old ship. Back home, the constant lights of the district blotted out many of the stars she could now see. She wished she would be able to describe this sight to her grandmother.

Steps behind her had her swiftly spin around, wielding a slightly corroded metal pipe as weapon, but it was only Evan.

"Good to see that you have some weapon," he commended her.

"It seemed the reasonable thing," Chalen shrugged. "Is it already midnight?"

"Not yet, but almost, I think. Look, over there, in the South, you can see the summer triangle in the sky," Evan said and pointed out some stars in the sky. "With this one being almost overhead, it means it's almost midnight."

Chalen was definitely impressed. "How do you such things?"

"My work back home," he said, but didn't elaborate and the look he had in his eyes told her not to push the matter. "Besides," he continued, "the anthem and the information of who died today have yet to come and they are scheduled for midnight."

Just then the first strains of the o so familiar melody filled the air.

Both were surprised when the picture of the girl from District 1 appeared in the sky. Next was the girl from District 3, followed by the boy from District 7. As Rodi's picture appeared in the sky, Chalen found she could cry again. Sobbing quietly, she didn't resist, as Evan pulled her into a comforting embrace. "He saved my life," she choked out, all anger at her former district partner gone. Meanwhile the picture of the girl from District 10 came and went, being replaced by the pictures of both tributes from District 12.

The seal appeared once more in the night sky and together with the music faded into darkness. It was with the last strains of music, that Evan noticed something floating from the sky in their direction. "Chalen, look!" he urged her.

It was a miniature ship with a distinct 8 painted on the ghostly glow-in-the-dark sail-shaped parachute. It was a sponsors' gift. All grief for Rodi for the moment forgotten, Chalen plucked the ship from the air, while Evan hastily bunched up the parachute's fabric. As useful as the fabric might be, right now it was just too bright. They certainly didn't want to alert any lurking Careers of their position.

"Oh Evan, look, it's a water bottle!" Chalen gushed. Indeed, Woof had gone all out and sent her one of those precious bottles. And while it was considerably smaller than the bottle Evan had found in his backpack, it was one with the press mechanism which yielded instantly drinkable water. Now, if they managed to find a container in which to store that water, they would be comparatively well off.

"Thank you, oh thank you!" Chalen whispered into the night to no one particular, but this was just as well as it allowed everyone in the Capitol who had backed her up to feel that those words were meant for them.

* * *

 _District Three - Mr. Yeo_

District 3 was different from the rest of the districts in many ways. But just how different it was became glaringly apparent where the Yeos were concerned. All of their friends and colleagues came through for them. Individually or in groups, they had approached them and offered help. As such, both parents were able to just prepare the food at home in their own kitchen, while their friends and colleagues took it out in the carts to feed the district, allowing them both to watch the games while working. Neither wanted to miss a minute of the games, miss the chance of seeing how their daughter was doing. They would be taking turns sleeping, thus ensuring that there was always one of them observing the TV, ready to call the other should Fancy appear on the screen.

Never though had they expected to see their daughter so prominently on the screen that first night. Both had cheered earlier when their child had made it out of the Bloodbath alive. But now Fancy was back... and that girl from District 2 was all over her within seconds.

A wail rose from the kitchen as the cannon sounded and the Career turned to face the other intruder. As that girl got away, Mr. Yeo could not help but wish their places had been reversed. Because despite how daring Fancy's plan had be, the other girl's survival had shown him that it had actually had a comparatively decent chance of success. To know that his daughter had not rushed in headless was however a poor consolation.

Turning to his wife, they both sought comfort in each others' arms.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2


	30. Chapter 27 - Arena: Seventeen

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 27: The arena – Seventeen**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

When he returned to the director's booth the next morning, coffee in hand, Claudius was surprised to hear that there had been only one casualty during the night. As he watched the pictures though, he couldn't help but think that this action though might see one of the mentors from District 11 being invited to Caesar's talk tonight. He had already been correct with his prediction that one of the mentors from District 1 would be among the assembled experts at last night's round, so unless something spectacular happened today, Claudius was pretty confident about his prediction.

As he went through the pictures to assemble the summary of the first day and night for breakfast TV, he also made sure to include pictures of the exploding ship which had followed the traditional cannon announcing the dead tributes at the Bloodbath. He then switched to some footage from Caesar's show to get the opinion of the invited mentor on the ships. Alopex Logan was clearly a professional for such talks by now and his take on this feature was straight to the point. "I like it. It's scaring in that as of now, none of the surviving tributes has an idea what the explosion was about, and it will keep them on their toes. It's also a good way to keep the tributes from spreading out too far and is definitely easier to control than a prairie fire, which would be a more traditional option to herd them back together."

Claudius couldn't help but wonder if they would get another ship's explosion today and if so, if some of the tributes caught on as to what was going on.

Wrapping up the summary, he turned to his colleagues, who all bore the look of someone longing for some sleep. Even for people who preferred to work at night, staring at screens which showed hardly any action as the subjects filmed slept, the night shift was tedious. Apparently even the tributes from the Big Alliance, who had gone on a night time exploration, had returned some time after midnight to catch some sleep. At least most of the kids were up again by now, so Claudius switched through the various cameras to catch morning impressions of all of them. So far he could make out four groups of varying sizes and three lone wanderers. As it looked like the Big Alliance was getting ready for their next hunting trip, he eventually stopped his camera rotation and focussed on this group.

"Can you get me a split screen with one half focussing on the alliance and the other half rotating through the rest of them?" a gay voice asked from behind Claudius.

Twirling around in his chair, the director shot the fashionable woman, who stood in the door, a grin. "Anything for you, Brendalisa, anything." Like anyone in the business, Claudius knew that more careers in the Capitol had been killed by the Capitol's prime breakfast TV show than tributes in all Hunger Games combined since Brendalisa had taken over the show. Though appearing no older than twenty-seven, he knew that the infamous host was more his own age. But then again, anyone twenty-seven years old, aimed for a look no older than twenty... So, maybe by Capitol standards, Brendalisa looked her age. And she most certainly had a knack for knowing the right people, getting the right information and planting a seed of doubt at the opportune moment. All of which was why Claudius did not want to fall victim to her skills.

"Any preference as to the rotation speed? Anyone you want me to stay on longer to feed a certain interest of the audience?"

"Not yet, but thanks for the offer," the host said and with a cheerio-wave she walked away.

Claudius just shook his head and returned his attention to the screen.

* * *

 _Rufa Coley, D4, 17Y_

Rufa had to admit that she was feeling a little desperate. While she had not done anything wrong the previous day – she had headed straight for the Cornucopia, had found some spears, had thrown them after tributes she deemed to be within range – she had yet to make a kill. Not that she actually wanted to become a murderer, but all others of her alliance had already killed at least one tribute and as such proven their worth. What if they decided that she just wasn't cut to be member of their alliance? Marten had, after all, killed his own district partner because he considered her a liability. And she didn't fancy having to take flight this early in the games. There were still too many out there for her to come up with effective traps and lure individual tributes into them. Right now she would be better off sticking with the group. But perhaps it was for the best to be aware that the point where she'd have to leave the group might be upon her much earlier than she liked. It would certainly serve her well to plan for that eventuality.

Then again, it was only the second day of the games and maybe today would be the day she could prove herself... As such, as they got up to prepare for a forenoon hunting session, all she could think of was that she didn't want to be ordered to stay behind and guard their base. Not even the fact that Abelia had made her third kill last night while being on watch, could make that prospect enticing to her, as she sincerely doubted any tribute would sneak back to the Cornucopia in broad daylight.

Next to her, Abelia was berating herself for her lack of foresight. "I should have known that some would be sneaking back. I should have brought the stuff deeper into the ship and not have it all piled up and sorted near the entrance."

"You could not have foreseen that two of them, individually, got the same idea and would try for it at the same time," Rufa said. "Had they been a bit further apart, you would have gotten them both."

"Maybe. But to lose my jacket..."

This had been especially hard on Abelia, as she not unreasonably feared it would condemn her to guard the ship anytime they set out after sunset, simply because while she could keep warm inside the ship with a sleeping bag, she couldn't walk around the arena in that same sleeping bag.

"Maybe we get lucky today and you can get another tribute's jacket. It might not be a perfect fit, but who knows." Rufa tried to cheer her up. Besides, if they got a new jacket for Abelia this way, nobody would get the idea that she might give her jacket to Abelia for a night time excursion, seeing how they were of comparatively similar built and height. And as the previous nightly walk had shown, having to break away from the alliance without a jacket, sleeping bag or not, was not advisable.

"Well, then, we'd better get going in this case," Abelia said as they joined the boys for a quick breakfast.

As they sat together, plans for the day were discussed.

"I think we should head out soon and check out the hills to the Northeast," Marten said. "If only to get a better feeling for the arena and see which ships are nearest to ours and worth checking out so we can avoid another situation like the one last night."

"From what I could see yesterday when we fetched water, the hills look as if they might have a good number of edible plants growing there. It would be worth gathering some of the on our way back to make our Capitol provided supplies last longer," Abelia suggested eagerly and Rufa guessed that, edible plants and surveying aside, Abelia hoped to find the girl who got away last night there, as the hills was the direction she had been seen running.

"In this case I volunteer to guard the ship," Connor said. "I wouldn't have the slightest clue how to tell one plant from the other."

Rufa was relieved. Without even bringing attention to herself, she was set to go out with the others. Still she felt she should be contributing something to the discussion, so racked her brain for a suitable suggestion. Looking around, something among the backpacks and ropes caught her attention. "We should also take a few of these netting bags. If we lash them together, we could span them across one of the brooks where they feed into the lake as we set out for the hills and see if we can bring some fish for lunch on our way back to go with the plants."

"Always one to promote your home district's main industry," Marinus joked.

"Well, too bad then for you that we can't eat stones," Rufa replied with a grin and they all had a hearty laugh.

Knowing however that the sun would curtail any exploration and make them turn back latest by noon, they all soon turned their attention to the items they wanted to carry with them today. Water was always a given, as were weapons. Rufa opted for two spears along with the throwing stars. As predicted, none of the others had objected her claim and while she thought of them only as back-up weapons should she loose her spears for some unforeseen reason, she wanted to get used to carrying them around with her so she would not forget them at a later point where she might need them for her traps. If Rufa spent a little more time on assembling her pack for the day and carefully selecting her items, at least none of the others commented on it. Yes, she did get the occasional raised eyebrow at packing yet another of the netting bags and a little extra rope as well as a knife besides the other weapons, but her explanations that she didn't want the fishing scheme to fail because they ripped a net when setting up their fish trap and not wanting to go back was accepted by the others. There was no need for them to know that she had decided to always pack as if she were to break away from them. She preferred to be prepared, so would always try to carry as many essentials with her as possible.

* * *

 _Alicia Quinn, D5, 12Y_

The next morning started with Haden predictably looking around in quest of his district partner. "Is Kersia here?" he asked with hope shining through his voice.

Alicia hated having to lie to him and she already grieved for the girl, whom she would have liked to call a friend, but who was destined to die either today or latest by tomorrow in this miracle-free zone that was the arena. "Not yet," she replied. "But you do know that it's a large arena, and if she got confused and ran in the opposite direction yesterday morning, it would take her quite long to catch up with us."

"But we already waited for so long. All night!" Haden insisted.

"I know. But we also walked really long yesterday." Looking around for something with which to demonstrate how different long could be, Alicia saw some grassy reeds growing outside, so got up and dragged Haden with her. Picking two of them, she laid one on the ground. "So, this is how long we walked yesterday. If Kersia walked in the opposite direction before realizing that she was heading the wrong way, she'd have to cover that distance." And she added the second reed. "Now, we all know that Kersia was given some medicine, which helped her breathing and allowed her to run for a while yesterday. But the medicine wouldn't have lasted the whole day. So eventually she would have been forced to walk slowly and take a lot of breaks to rest. As such, it will take her much longer than it took us to reach this ship."

"But we will wait here for her, yes?" Haden looked so beseechingly at her, that Alicia was lost for an answer.

She heard footsteps on the sandy ground and turned. It was Evan. Alicia closed her eyes for a second and hoped her district partner would have patience with Haden and not brutally shred the boy's hopes. Yes, back at the Capitol, Evan had promised to give Haden a chance, but Alicia could also see that he was having troubles to deal with his simple mind. Already yesterday, she feared that Haden's constant inquiries after Kersia were grating on Evan's nerves to the point where he'd tell the boy to get lost, knife skills or not. Or perhaps even kill him right then and there. The arena was said to change people, and where would that leave her?

But then she saw Evan smile at them. Apparently some sleep and some water, plus the welcome addition of Chalen's new bottle had calmed his battered nerves a bit. "While I still think we should head for yet another ship even further away, I think we can afford to stay here for the day and not move on till night fall. There's no need to expose us all to the brunt of the day's heat again and the stars will provide enough light for us to see where we are heading. So that would give Kersia some more time."

Alicia shot him a grateful look. "And if she's not here by nightfall we can leave her a sign that only she will recognize, to let her know that she is walking in the right direction."

This calmed Haden and they soon began to make plans on how to best spend the day.

Next to water, food would be their main concern. As such it was easily decided amongst them that Chalen and Alicia would go and search for edible plants. Looking for more food sources however, it was Chalen who noticed the birds near the banks of the brook.

"Haden, do you think you could catch birds same as you can catch rats?" she asked and pointed in the direction of the waders.

Following the lead, Haden looked at the birds. "They do look a bit like rats. But I don't have a knife." He looked disappointed.

"Well, maybe we can make you a knife," Evan suggested. "There's enough metal in the ships, and using some rocks and more metal we should be able to get the blade at least somewhat sharp."

Nobody could miss how Haden's eyes lighted up with the thought of having a knife soon and he happily followed Evan back inside the ship to look for a suitable piece of metal.

"While you are inspecting the ship," Chalen called after them, "try and see if you can find something in which we could store water so we could get a bit of supply." After all, the bottle Woof had sent her could only hold comparatively little water, meaning they'd have to refill it quite often before they all would no longer feel thirsty.

"Yes, ma'am," Evan replied with a cheeky grin.

As the girls headed out in quest of edible plants, Alicia couldn't keep some of her thoughts contained any longer. "Oh Chalen, I feel so horrible."

Alarmed, the older girl looked at her. "Are you alright? Do you need something from the first aid kit?"

Alicia instantly shook her head. "Oh no, no, not that kind of horrible. It's Kersia. And Haden. I feel horrible because I keep hoping that Kersia will not survive this day. So that I no longer have to lie to Haden. But what kind of person hopes for another one's death?" Tears were actually streaming down her cheeks now.

Chalen drew the crying girl into an embrace, feeling reminded of her own breakdown last night as the dead had been shown in the sky. She certainly had not wished for Rodi's death this early in the games, though she had known that at some point she would have had to wish for him to die rather than herself. "It's not that you are hoping for her death, because her death is inevitable. You simply hope for the inevitable to occur before the suffering becomes too much. And it's not only your own suffering you want to end, as you hate lying, but also Haden's suffering as he is constantly waiting for her, missing her, hoping to see her soon. And last but not least, it's Kersia's suffering you don't want to see dragged out. While the medicine helped her escape the Bloodbath yesterday, I doubt she was able to get much in terms of supplies. So with the heat and her already weakened body, this arena will sooner or later be pure torture to her. You might think your feelings selfish, but I think thoughts about yourself are only part of what makes you wish as you do."

Alicia slowly nodded, still not fully convinced. But already talking to Chalen about her feelings had helped and when she then heard bangs and clangs from inside the ship, indicating that Evan and Haden were hard at work to get them water containers and a knife, she could even smile a little.

* * *

 _Cory Hershel, D11, 14Y_

They had found a smaller ship wreck which once might have been a shrimp trawler. Not that either Tybor or Cory knew anything about ships, but the size had appealed to them. They felt they might be able to turn it into a fortress and defend it. Plus it was more than half a day's walk away from the Cornucopia and from the Careers.

As their journey through the heat the previous day had left them rather knackered, the two boys had left a closer inspection of the ship to this morning. First order of the day though was refilling their water bottles. While only the compartmentalized version, both had managed to grab a backpack with a bottle each, along with a little food, matches and some other materials. Cory had found extra socks and a cap with neck guard in his pack, while Tybor's had contained also a sewing kit, night vision glasses and, much to their delight, a fishing line. Of course there was no hook, but they figured that by using the small safety pin which came with the sewing kit, they might actually be able to try for some fish.

"We should have checked out plants and insects back at the training centre," Tybor had moaned as they had surveyed their loot and found that for all the fun they had had, they had totally discounted the need to find food.

"Nah," Cory had dismissed this thought. "While I won't object to use insects to catch fish, I don't fancy eating bug stew. Besides, fishing will be much more fun than gathering spiders and ants and what not. We might have made fun of the girl from District One because of her attitude regarding the insects, but I don't like the crawling varieties too much either. Not to mention that by showing our improvisational skills with the hook, we might attract some sponsors who will then send us something to go with the fish."

"Not to mention our fort-building skills," Tybor had added.

So this morning, as they returned to the ship and wait for their water to become drinkable, Cory gave their ship a good look-over. "We might not be able to get our drawbridge...," he began.

Tybor picked up instantly what Cory was referring to. "But without a moat it would not make much sense to have a drawbridge. And I don't fancy digging one and then redirect the brook."

"Still, it looks good. Let's go and explore the inside."

They found the ship in presumably good condition. Yes, it had some cracks in the hull, but there was only one large enough to enter the ship, which would warrant guarding, aside from the opening which led to the deck. Even the stairs leading up were still sound enough to support the weight of one of them. Some remnants of old partitioning remained also, though some of the sheet metal looked a bit loose. On the deck there were the side walls of the bridge, though the roof was half gone. Of the mast also only remnants remained.

"Well, it might not be a draw bridge, but I think we should try and see if we can move some of those partitioning sheets to the opening in the side to give us some kind of door we can close against intruders." Cory suggested.

Tybor agreed. Together they approached what they deemed a suitable partitioning and began moving in forth and back.

"Sounds good!" Cory said encouragingly as they heard the metal groaning as it became lose centimetre by centimetre.

Still it was hard word, till suddenly, with a large crack, not only the piece they had been working on came lose, but a whole load of connecting sheets as well.

"Watch out!" Tybor shouted, as the whole mess threatened to bury Cory under it. At the last second Cory was able to jump to the side, but still, for several long seconds after this both boys feared that the ship would collapse over their heads. Yet they were lucky, the hull was still in comparatively good shape and as the echoes from the fallen partitioning faded, no further sound of disintegration was audible. Even the stairs leading up to the deck had survived intact.

Seeing this, the two of them high-fived before setting to work and with a few more kicks and some more pulling and pushing, they soon had a sheet of metal freed, large enough to cover their entrance.

"Well, if nothing else, we can use this to reinforce our door, should the Careers really come with a battering ram. Though where they get the tree log from would be the question." Cory said, quite satisfied with their results.

"They are Careers. If they need a log for a battering ram, their mentors simply will pool together the available sponsor money, and soon they'll have a whole forest sent for them," Tybor replied.

"Now that would be a sight... A forest floating down into the arena as sponsor gift. Though it would of course alert every other surviving tribute of the Careers' position and their possible plans."

Both boys laughed at that picture.

"Come on," Cory eventually said. "Let's get the door fitted in and have a drink. Then we should try our fishing skills."

However, fishing with line and improvised hook, even with the addition of some bug as bait, proved to be not as easy as they had hoped. It seemed as if, no matter where in the brook they hung their hook, no fish was passing by. Yet both boys were sure they had seen fish in the brook the previous day when they had first gone down there for some water.

It was Tybor who eventually sussed out their problem. He had been walking along the bank of the brook while Cory was manning the line, when he came to a scruffy bush which partially grew over the brook. And there, in the shadow of the watercourse, he could clearly see some small fish almost standing still in the water. His eyes widened as he realized what had been keeping the fish away from their line.

"It's the sun," he called out to Cory running back to him. "Like us, the fish prefer to stay in the shadows when the sun is burning down like this."

"Well, and what do you propose we do about this?" Cory grumbled as he was getting a bit cranky from standing out there in the sun for so long and trying to catch a fish without any luck.

"Well, either we move down to a spot, where there is some natural shadow, though the bush looked mightily uncomfortable for fishing and also seems to be the only thing providing any shadow within a considerable radius," Tybor said, "or we create our own shadow for the fish."

"Don't tell me you want us to weave nets like we did at shelter training, to cover part of the brook?" Cory asked, eying the surrounding land distastefully. It would take them quite a while to gather enough material, which with the sun almost above them, would be quite torturous.

"Not really. What I have in mind is a bit faster, though might be exhausting as well. I was thinking about using some of the metal sheets which accidentally came loose this morning. If we drag two of the smaller ones down here, and prop them up like a pitched roof, we could even sit under them while waiting for the fish to accept our invitation." Tybor explained.

Cory warily looked in the direction of their ship as if to calculate the distance. Tybor was right, it might be exhausting, but it would be worth a shot. Also, as the brook was on the far side of the ship with regards to the Cornucopia, they might be able to leave their fishing roof as semi permanent structure outside. "Let's do it," he said with renewed enthusiasm.

* * *

 _Kersia McKenna, D9, 13Y_

It was one thing to know that one was dying, but it was a completely other thing to face death. Even with her illness and all the rational thoughts that had led her to volunteer, Kersia now knew that she would much rather die at home, in her bed, surrounded by her family, because even if her mother by then only considered her a burden, she knew her brother loved her. Instead she was in a hostile arena, which by itself was designed to kill her, even if she somehow evaded the other tributes.

With the medicine soothing her throat and lungs, Kersia had done exactly what she had told the audience during her interview: She had run away as fast as she could. The tricky thing had been to run around the Cornucopia away from Haden and his allies, so as to end up in a direction which would not have her accidentally meet them later. But she had managed it and had found herself tracking through the eastern outskirts of a group of hills, the only natural feature to provide some means of concealment. After all, she had to live up to her claim that she wanted to lay low and hope to escape notice and the hills provided better cover than the flat land surrounding them. She knew she had to play by the rules if she didn't want to risk repercussions for her or Hannah's family back home and have her plan work.

As she had known that she would die in the arena, she had not even bothered trying to grab some supplies. After all, why waste supplies on someone who would not benefit from them in the long run? It would only take away necessary resources from someone who at least stood a chance. Even if that one was a Career. But as sound as that reasoning had been as she had dashed away from the Cornucopia, Kersia had tremendously underestimated her body's will to live. Weak or not, her body craved water before too long and her stomach reminded her that some food would not be amiss either.

Well, food she had been able to find, as she recognized some of the edible plants from training. There were even some among them she could eat raw. But they were rather tangy and added to her thirst. She tried sucking on some reed stems and trick her body into thinking the saliva generated this way was a means of staying hydrated, though of course it didn't really work.

Much sooner than she had anticipated, the effect of the medicine wore off and combined with the sun beating down on her, she had been forced to seek shelter. Luck would have it that she encountered a cluster of scruffy, almost bare bushes. These stood close enough together that by draping her jacket over them, she could create some shaded shelter under which to crawl and wait.

Night came eventually and the arena cooled down to the point, where she slipped on her jacket again. Kersia contemplated whether to move on or stay where she was. Staying would be so easy. It would also allow someone to find her pretty soon and end her life, seeing that she could not be that far from the Cornucopia. Yet something inside her fought that very notion.

Her stomach still growled, but the thirst kept her from seeking out more edible plants. By midnight, she had still not decided what her next move should be. The anthem told her the time, but it was the pictures above her, which told her something else. Seeing strong and healthy people dead, people like the girl from District 1 whom she had definitely thought would survive far longer than herself, ignited a tiny spark of hope in her. Yes, her chances were still perhaps the worst of all tributes alive, but they were now by far better than the chances of those who already died. So why shouldn't it be possible for her to make it through another day? And another? Maybe, if she took it one day at a time... Just like she had told the audience. In this case, though, she would need at least one of the water bottles. But how to get one?

The surest source would be the Careers' base, but it would also be the most dangerous, so she ruled that one out. But what about other tributes? Could she try and steal one from them?

Listening to her laboured breath in the quiet of the night, Kersia knew it would have to be a dead tribute for her to steal something successfully, as any living tribute would easily catch her. So, where to find a dead tribute, not yet collected by the hovercraft, but still in possession of a water bottle? Wouldn't the ones who killed that tribute take the water bottle themselves?

There was only one group, Kersia mused, which was likely to leave a water bottle behind: the Careers. If it was one of the compartmentalized bottles and they all had piston bottles, they would not consider the fallen tribute's bottle worth taking. So all she had to do was show up after the Careers had left and before the hovercrafts collected the body. Which meant following the Careers as they headed out to hunt down other tributes. Could she really do it? What would be a safe distance so as not to become the hunted tribute herself?

It was a reckless idea, yet that tiny spark of hope had her seriously consider it. Besides, at home she had managed to go unnoticed by her mother often enough by keeping still, so why shouldn't she be able to escape the Careers' notice now? Without really being aware of it, Kersia had begun moving, walking back in the direction of the Cornucopia and by the time a new day dawned, she was just within view of the ship. She was exhausted, but she could see life stirring at the Cornucopia, telling her that she had found the Careers. She even found a thick cluster of reeds, which would allow her to hide from sight. Settling down to wait for the Careers to set out for their hunting trip, Kersia dozed off.

When she woke up again, the sun was already high in the sky. Peeking carefully through the reeds and seeing the Cornucopia all quiet, it was obvious she had missed the Careers leaving, but then again this meant that she had hid successfully from them. Since there had also been no cannon sound to wake her up, she had not yet missed the opportunity she had come for. Just then, she heard some rustling in the grass nearby and Kersia shrank back, trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible.

"If we cut across here, we should end up where we tied the nets to the banks," a female voice said and murmur of consent could be heard.

Footsteps came closer and ever closer to where she hid. Kersia willed herself to keep still and hold her breath, praying for them to walk past that cluster of reeds and not through it. Not through it...

"What...?" exclaimed someone above her and as Kersia looked up, she saw the girl from District 4 poised above her, spear raised. And then she knew no more.

* * *

 _Maarck Wijngaard, D10, 17Y_

The cannon at noon time that second day had worried Griffin more than he wanted to show, Maarck could tell. It wouldn't be until midnight that they knew who the unfortunate tribute was, but he could guess that Griffin feared it was Mary. Of course Griffin had immediately continued working on fortifying their ship – they all had stopped for a few seconds, when the cannon had sounded –, but there was a tension about him which had not left him even once they had deemed the fort done. It was strange to consider a ship, or rather the half of the ship which was left for them, a fort, but it was a structure which could be defended, and as such a suitable base.

They had even spent the early morning hours clearing the reeds, grasses and even the odd bush now and then from the perimeter. As Griffin had pointed out: "It might invite the sand into the fort, but will prevent an approaching tribute from hiding successfully."

"And it will provide us with fuel for a cooking fire and material to fashion fish traps," Maarck had added.

"I can see the twigs of these bushes make a nice, but small fire," Coralee had pointed out. "But I doubt it will last us that long..."

"Ever heard of hay sticks?" Maarck had countered. And seeing the questioning looks of his allies, he had promptly demonstrated what he meant. The freshly plucked grass was not as good as hay, but for demonstration purposes it sufficed. "We use these sometimes back home if the winter coals have not yet arrived, but the summer meadows provided us with plenty of hay." He said by way of explanation. "Given the climate, I think any grass we pick now should be dry enough within a day or two, just in time when the wood from the bushes runs out."

Now, with the perimeter cleared and the ship fortified, it was time to see about some food. They had managed to create half a dozen fish traps, and it was not without some pride that Maarck could see that his were the best shaped ones. Still, keeping the words of the trainer in mind, not even the most misshapen one got discarded as it could still be used to guide the fish into another trap.

As they placed the traps into the nearby brook, Maarck paused to think how he felt concerning the prospect of another tribute joining their alliance the next day. While the girl's reasoning had appeared sound at first regarding showing that she had it in her to survive, he somehow felt there was something not right. It was not so much that she would only join them once the main work on their fort was done, but deep down he felt something was off with Mary.

"What's your take on Mary?" he asked Coralee, when she crouched next to him to check if they had already been lucky enough to catch a fish. He had sensed that she was a bit wary of their potential new ally as well.

"It's not as if we really know her. I mean, yes, I didn't know you really either, but we already survived together for almost two days." Coralee said. "We shared water, we depended on each one of us during their watch last night while the others slept and we are still alive. So none of us are backstabbing people, set out to get all the supplies and kill the others in their sleep. I have faith in us. I don't know about Mary. Even if she really meant it back at the training centre, the arena is known to change people. What if she only sees our supplies..."

"Yes, I can understand what you mean." Maarck sighed. "It's as if we bonded on some level over the last day and night. But what is actually worrying me more is where the supposed meeting is to take place. I mean, who actually stands a chance to survive near the Cornucopia outside the Career alliance?"

"You think she is actually with the Careers and would join us as some kind of spy?"

"Think about it. She's the right age. She's pretty good with the light spears. And their alliance has lost a member at the very beginning. What if it was all an elaborate plan? What if they intended to replace the girl from District One with Mary all along? Sure, they kept their distance during training, but that doesn't mean they didn't find an opportunity to speak. So they perhaps perceived the girl from District One as weak and wanted to get a substitute. In which case it would be easy enough for Mary to survive till tomorrow and be even near the Cornucopia."

"That would be one hell of a plan." Coralee conceded. "But do you really think an outer district tribute would join the Careers and expect to make it out alive? Everyone knows that those they usually take on are considered sacrificial lambs by them."

"But that would be where Mary really fooled all of us," Maarck countered. "She would be telling her current alliance that she would join us for show, to suss out our weaknesses for the Careers so that they could take down one or two of us. Of course she would also tell us their weaknesses so we could level the field a bit. Of course the Careers would know that she's telling us, but really, we would be her exit ticket. Maybe she'd even engineer it to the point where there'd be some kind of showdown, during which she slips away with enough supplies to last her a couple of days, while all her former allies clubber each other to death."

"You really think she would do this?" a new voice asked and as they turned around, they saw Griffin, who had obviously listened to their conversation for quite some time.

Maarck looked a little sheepish, but more because he had not voiced these thoughts to Griffin openly instead of talking them over with Coralee kind of behind his back. Still he nodded. "Maybe she wouldn't go so far as to engineer a battle between the alliances, but I really think that her only chances of surviving in the environs of the Cornucopia would be by joining the Careers. So if she met with you tomorrow and came with you, you might be inviting a spy to our camp."

Coralee nodded, sharing this view.

"But you are aware that the Cornucopia is the only constant you can count on when setting up a meeting point in advance without knowing the actual layout of the arena you are facing?" Griffin queried.

"True, but it doesn't have to be a fixed structure where you meet. You could also have said: Let's meet a day's walk east from the Cornucopia. We knew from training that the arena would not be overgrown with trees obscuring your view, so it could be expected that even with different stride lengths, you'd be within visual range of each other. Even if we got mountains again, the rocky outcrops would have allowed you elevation to spot each other." Maarck didn't like to destroy Griffin's faith in Mary, but he couldn't help himself, he had to make the flaws of the plan known.

"So, if I still decided to go and meet her tomorrow and bring her back with me, would that mean you'd leave and end our alliance?"

Maarck scratched his nose, pondering this for a moment. Then he shook his head, albeit a bit reluctantly. "No, I wouldn't leave. I trust your people's reading skills enough. But you know how I analyze the environment, and the things surrounding your meeting lead to the arguments I just laid out. So if Mary joined us, I hope you won't hold it against me if I can't trust her immediately and welcome her with open arms."

"Fair enough," Griffin nodded.

"Ooh, look!" Coralee squealed excitedly and put an end to all serious discussion. "I've found a nest with eggs!"

* * *

 _District Nine - Mrs. McKenna_

The cupboard in the kitchen was empty. As were her children's stomachs. Any vegetables she harvested these days from their garden yielded just one meagre meal for all of them. As a supplement, it had been enough, but as main source of food...

Today was Kersia's tesserae day, but Kersia was not there. That girl was never going to be there again. Not after she had volunteered in that stupid fashion! What had she been thinking?

The door opened and as Mrs. McKenna looked up, she saw her eldest son entering. School was over. He would be demanding some dinner soon, she knew. But where to get it from?

As he approached, she saw that he was actually smiling, even if it was a sad kind of smile. Why was he smiling? And where did he get that large jute bag from, he was carrying?

Baro walked up to her and placed the bag on the kitchen table, tears glistening in his eyes. "We told you everything would be fine!" he said, his voice choking, as he gently tipped over the bag and she could see food inside. A loaf of bread, some fruits, a good number of vegetables, even a bit of salted pork... Carefully rationed, she could cook several meals from that, lasting her family for days.

"Where did you get it from?" Mrs. McKenna asked, staring at the food in disbelief.

"Kersia got it for us." Baro whispered, before breaking down, knowing his sister would never return as he had seen her die today when they had watched the broadcast during recess.

Mrs. McKenna didn't know what to make of her son's statement, but over the next days and weeks, as her family survived and the truth dawned on her, she became ashamed of herself, of her appalling attitude towards the girl, who in the end had saved them. But she vowed that she would never allow herself to reach the point where they were forced to rely on the sacrifice of a child of hers again. Baro might not escape the necessity of taking out tesserae, but she would do everything in her power to limit the number of slips as much as possible.

Eight years later, when her son was spared his final Reaping Day; she was so relieved, that she collapsed on her daughter's grave, never to get up again, exhausted from endless work, but at peace with herself for once.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4


	31. Chapter 28 - Arena: Sixteen

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 28: The arena – Sixteen**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

This time, the night had been quiet, which Claudius appreciated. This didn't mean that there hadn't been tributes moving around, but as there hadn't been any encounters of opposing parties, there was no need to work on the lighting of the pictures for the summary. While live feed was just that, in the summary, the audience expected to be able to make out more details of any action. And depending on the camera angles which caught the action, the pictures might need some serious retouching where light was concerned. Things being however as they were, today's summary was quickly assembled. Two themes featured heavily in the footage: tributes procuring food and the surprising survival of that many alliances so far. Right now they had four alliances out there, ranging from two to five tributes, and only two lone wanderers, which might also account for the lack of nightly encounters. And of the two lone wanderers, one might actually become a member of an existing alliance today as had been gleaned from the conversation between her potential allies the day before.

This aspect had already been discussed in Caesar's late night talk the last night, as indeed Seeder had been invited. So, developments of this day aside, Claudius doubted that Caesar would make the girl of District 11 today's main topic.

There was also another reason for not doing it: A mentor of District 11 had already been invited, so even if instead of Seeder they invited Chaff for that night's show, having the same district twice in a row would be conceived as giving too much attention to one district. As for a mentor of District 6...

While Claudius was still contemplating Caesar's options for that night's show's experts – it was kind of a personal betting hobby of his – one of his co-directors approached him.

"Hey boss, would you sign that for me?" And Claudius found what looked like a postcard thrust at him.

Turning around, he saw Alyssa standing there with a little awkward grin on her face.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A postcard. Actually, I have a whole stack here..." She pointed to a pile of maybe ten or so more cards at her desk.

"It still doesn't explain what this is about and why you want me to sign it," Claudius elaborated his previous question.

"It's for my niece," Alyssa began. "Actually not for her directly, but for that school thing they have going on."

Claudius tried to recall if his kids had also been doing something with postcards at home, but came up blank. However that did not mean that they hadn't been involved in the same thing and that his wife had simply taken care of the postcards. Alyssa, on the other hand, he recalled, was solely responsible for her niece, the parents having been killed in a traffic accident two years ago. Of course Capitol rumour had it that the accident hadn't been really an accident, but it didn't change anything about the outcome. "Okay, fill me in. You know that no Capitolite worth his or her salt will sign anything without looking for the fine print."

"Remember how that little girl from District Nine during her interview said that she had volunteered because she wanted to see the Capitol before she died, as she was dying from those lung injuries anyway?" Alyssa asked. "Yes, she also said that she would not be averse to winning and have our wonderful Capitol doctors fix her lungs, but that she volunteered to see our city struck a chord with the kids. When she died yesterday it upset quite a few of them. Deep down they knew that she wouldn't win, but still they rooted for her a bit. So the teacher came up with the idea that they send out postcards to all the sick children in the districts with pretty pictures of the Capitol so that they could see the city without having to volunteer."

"You know that could be rather risky?" Claudius was still not sold. Yes, it sounded like a nice gesture, but it could also backfire in that it could be interpreted as the youth of the Capitol being against the District children being forced into the games.

Alyssa shook her head. "The teacher knows what she's doing. The messages are pretty harmless. Like 'With love from the Capitol, hope you get well soon'. Plus, the President's own granddaughter is in that class and my niece said that Celestia fully intended to ask her grandfather to sign some of the cards. So I think he will look at it as a way to promote his image as benevolent grandfather of the nation."

Well, if the President was signing those cards, so was Claudius. After all, it was never too early to teach children compassion.

Turning back to the screens, the head-director wondered who would die today, and if he or she, too, would generate such a reaction. Given how many tributes were still alive, they were almost guaranteed some action today. Other games might have been down in numbers faster than that one, but Claudius found that the dynamics of this year's games were far from boring. Indeed, despite having done his job for years, he was actually looking forward to his live feed shift today.

* * *

 _Cassiopeia Jansen, D6, 15Y_

It was only the third day, but Cassiopeia already understood what Pancratius had alluded to, when they had discussed allies back at the Capitol: She was beginning to feel lonely.

At the start of the games she had done what most had done – or so she assumed. She had grabbed what was within reach and then got out of there as fast as she could, never looking back. Once she felt she was far away enough from the Cornucopia and after making sure there were no other tributes following her, she had crouched in the shade of a cluster of bushes and examined the content of the backpack she had gotten. What she had found had delighted her. There was a water bottle, and while it was one that relied on ion drift, if she constantly kept it filled, she should be able to keep herself hydrated. This though proved to be harder than she thought in the following days. Yes, she managed to keep herself hydrated, but a lingering thirst was becoming something of a constant companion.

There was also a cap with a neck guard, which she immediately put on. Some matches and a small sewing kit, but best of all – aside from the water bottle of course –, there was even a thin sleeping bag inside. Only in terms of food she came up empty. It didn't bother her that much however. She knew that one could survive far longer without food than without water, and should she find a suitable place, she could try and set up traps to catch some animal.

As she had not wanted to stay in one place for too long, she had soon trudged on. Not even when she had reached the first ship wreck did she stop for a break. As appealing as the wreck was with the shade it offered, she instinctively understood that it would also appeal to any other tribute and more than half of them, she felt, could easily overpower her. But she did take a thin metal pipe with her she had found in the ship. While not a foil, it would work as impromptu weapon, as well as walking stick and she certainly felt better having it.

She had actually grieved to see Joseph's picture in the sky the first night, but felt she had made the right decision by not entering into an alliance with him. Yes, she was sad he was dead, but not devastated or swamped with feelings of guilt which might otherwise have been the case.

Not daring to set up camp at any of the ships, she had walked almost all day and night, mainly resting for water, so it was not till the next morning that she dropped down tiredly among some bushes. She could just hope that she was far away enough from the rest of the tributes to allow her to catch some sleep. Just in time she remembered that the sun would soon heat up everything and bear down on her, so instead of using the sleeping bag for its intended purpose, she spread it on top of the bushes to give her shade and then dropped down fast asleep.

Another cannon woke her up several hours later and she resumed her walk. It was not long after that that she reached a pile of metal rubble, which upon closer examination she deduced had once been a ship wreck. Remembering the previous day's explosion, Cassiopeia swiftly concluded that for whatever reason, the gamemakers had decided to rob them of one potential shelter-offering ship. Well, the reason was actually not that hard to guess: It was to herd them back together, as the metal appeared too bent and wedged in an interlocking fashion to allow for any further use. Building shelters out of the scrap metal would be more than exhausting and sitting out the games at the edge of the arena was just out. Oh no, that would be too easy. And if they really intended to herd them back together by exploding ships, then this pile of rubble indicated that she was pretty close to the outer edge of the arena. Which in itself was not a good thing, as the gamemakers tended to use whatever traps they had hidden in the arena to chase back the errant tribute that chose to disregard the signs. So unless she wanted to be surprised by a sand storm or something alike, she would have to turn back on her own volition.

But first, she thought with delight as she raised her metal pipe, she would have something to eat! The snake basking in the sun on a nearby stone was too tempting.

She might have trained with a thrust weapon at the training centre and had selected the pipe accordingly, but that didn't mean she couldn't perform some moves with it which were more meant for cut weapons.

Killing the snake was not as easy as Cassiopeia had thought it would be and indeed took her a few whacks and eventually a stone to crush the poor beasts skull, but eventually she had some food. Using a small piece of scrap metal as makeshift knife, she skinned and gutted the snake. She had no idea if any of the organs might be edible, but she didn't want to risk it. Roasting the remaining meat over a small fire, she was actually a bit proud of her achievement, though she wished she had someone with whom to share this experience. Oh, she was sure, that Angus and Pancratius and most likely also her dad were watching the games, waiting for her to appear on the screen, but Cassiopeia doubted that her successfully killing a snake and roasting it would get her any live screen time.

Her basic needs taken care of, she eventually decided to follow a nearby brook downstream, as she was pretty sure it ended up in the lake, thereby taking her back to the Cornucopia and away from a zone where the gamemakers might unleash a trap on her. Even though she slept for a few hours that night, she was surprised to find herself within view of the Cornucopia by noon the next day. Apparently the brook had been pretty much straight down to the lake, whereas her wanderings to the edge had been everything but straight forward.

Now however that she was definitely back in the danger zone where other tributes were concerned, she paid much more attention to her surroundings. It would not do to reach the end of the world that was the arena and travel all the way back, only to be killed before she could tell the story. Cassiopeia almost chuckled at the thought. It so reminded her of Angus. He had told her the most fascinating stories, but he had always emphasised that an adventurer who did not live to tell the tale was not worth his story.

Just then she sensed a movement at the far side of the Cornucopia, on the crest of one of the hills, but more importantly, also some movement inside the Cornucopia. Drat! It looked like the Careers had decided to make it their base camp and someone was just about to walk into the lion's den. But no, Cassiopeia told herself, it might also just be another Career returning from a tribute hunt. No need to jump conclusions.

Concealing herself as best she could among some of the scruffy bushes, she watched the scene with baited breath. No, this was no fellow Career. The other tribute seemed to veer slightly to the west to try and stay out of the immediate sight of the Career who was guarding the Cornucopia. Apparently the other one knew about the danger. But then, why risk coming this close to the Cornucopia?

A few times Cassiopeia was quite certain that the one at the Cornucopia must have spotted the other one, but for some reason never went to investigate or pursue the tribute and take a competitor out. Then it dawned on her that she herself might actually be too close, too. That if she got up now, she would cause a distraction which would have either tribute come after her. It didn't help either that the sun was now really high up and she was getting all hot. She so longed to take a sip from her bottle, but that would have meant shifting her backpack, and either the noise or the flash of red colour could alert one of the two tributes. She was doomed.

Clutching her metal pipe in her hands, ready to strike and maybe stand that tiny little chance of survival, she waited. And waited. And waited. She had no idea how long.

* * *

 _Marten Cooper, D1, 18Y_

Marten was keen to set out as early as possible. He had had the last watch of the night and while fetching water to refill their bottles, he had seen in the early sunlight something which looked like smoke to the west. It was too thin a tendril to be dust stirred up by a travelling tribute, never mind a sandstorm or prairie fire. Besides, he doubted that the gamemakers would already interfere. The total death toll might not be that high yet, but there had been a death every day so far. And Marten certainly intended to keep that record up – and keep the gamemakers from interfering.

The others shared his opinion, so the direction in which he had seen the smoke was where they'd head for the morning hunt. "Because where there is smoke, there sure is to be a fire." Marinus said and Connor added with a grin: "And where there is fire, there's bound to be a tribute."

"I volunteer to stay and guard the camp," Rufa offered. "I could get us a few more fish for lunch."

"And leave the camp wide open for other tributes to replenish their supplies?" Abelia asked, the encounters from the first night painfully etched into her mind.

"Not really," Rufa replied. "I'm going to lay out some traps. Nothing major, but enough to alert me and detain the would-be-thief till I come running back. After all, I have to make a trainer at the Capitol proud." She added with a smirk.

After a quick breakfast, the other four set out. Well rested, fed and trained, they covered ground easily. After about one hour of brisk walking, the remains of a smaller ship became just visible at the horizon. Estimating the distance, Marten called for them to pause a moment.

"Why are we stopping?" Connor asked a tad impatient.

"Well, if we continue marching in this direction, it's only a matter of perhaps half an hour before a tribute on the lookout at the ship sees us. And as we are the only alliance known to walk around looking for action, it would leave them about an hour to get out of there while we could do nothing to prevent it." Marten gave him a scathing look, for not having figured out the obvious. "And, again going by the distance, I think it's pretty likely that the smoke I saw earlier originated from the vicinity of that ship. So, unless you don't want to take out some of the other tributes..."

"Okay, okay, sorry for asking." Connor held up his hands, but he was obviously a bit miffed at the put-down. Not that Marten really cared.

"It's different from a night approach," Abelia said. "There the darkness gives us natural camouflage. And while we could most likely craft some ghillie suit using the grass and reeds around us, I don't really like the idea of adding all the extra weight and cover with the sun getting stronger by the minute."

"You are right," Marten nodded. "But I was thinking more in the terms of distraction. Right now we are far away enough that whoever might be staying in that ship can't make out if we are a lone tribute or actually a group. And we all agree that a lone tribute will look far less threatening and increase the likelihood of the tribute at the ship staying put."

Nobody contradicted this argument.

"So here's what I suggest we do: Fan out and try to encircle the ship. Even if we stay within visual range of the one closest to us, as group we should be too widespread for a watching tribute to see all of us at once."

"And what if it doesn't work? What if the tribute is still scared away by a lone figure approaching the ship?" Marinus worried.

"Then we'll know to keep our hunting restricted to night time." Marten shrugged. "But the audience and the gamemakers will know that we at least tried, and they will then see that we have learned from the experience and adapted our approach accordingly. So, let's try."

The others agreed and soon Marten was once more on his way to what appeared to have once been a shrimp trawler according to Connor. To his right, he could just make out Abelia, while Connor was to his left. Marinus was on the far side of the boy from District 4.

Apparently their ruse had worked, because as they closed in Marten could see faint movement on the ship's deck. He cheered inwardly. Now all they had to do was to board the ship.

Eventually he was close enough to see plainly the boy from District 3 on the deck. It would be his personal pleasure to kill this one! He had not forgotten the incident with the spears at the training centre... Luck would have it that the boy was currently looking in the direction of where Connor was approaching. That was, till there was a shout from the other side of the ship. Apparently the other half of the terrible duo was also in the vicinity and had caught a glimpse of either Marinus or Abelia. Judging that they were now close enough to catch any of the two should they attempt to flee, Marten abandoned all efforts of casual stealth and charged forward, a guttural war cry on his lips.

He heard the others follow his lead, when suddenly he found himself pelted with stones. Marten yelped when one of them grazed his temple. Why, these two had obviously collected a huge amount of stones as ammunition, and they certainly didn't hesitate to use them! Didn't they know they were supposed to stay put for one of his alliance to put them out of their misery?

Yet going by how the one on the deck soon concentrated on hailing down stones on the other side of the ship, Marten concluded that the boy from District 11 had been caught outside and his friend tried to distract Marinus and Abelia to allow the boy to reach the sanctuary of their ship. Not that either Marten or Connor had any intention of letting this happen. Marten rushed around the bow, just in time to see Connor at the stern, releasing his weapon. The stones had indeed kept their allies at bay, but Connor's spear caught the boy as he was frantically trying to shove aside a sheet of metal, which seemed to serve as door. Seeing a path clear of stones close by the ship's hull, Marten ran forward and brought down his sword on the shocked and wounded tribute. As he pulled back his weapon, the cannon signalled the boy's end. One down, another to go.

They all grinned at each other, then looked up to the deck. "Let's go!" Marten called out, shoving the makeshift door aside. Finding the stairs, he clambered up to the deck, closely followed by the others. Only to find the deck empty...

Without further words, the four of them spread out and searched for any spots, where the boy might be hiding, but found nothing. Maybe he had ensconced himself downstairs and in their hurry to get up, they had missed him? Just as the three boys turned towards the stairs to follow this thought, Abelia shouted for them. "Look!"

Marten hurried over to where she was standing at the railing. "That sneaky bastard!" he swore.

At the side of the weathered hull, a meter or so below the deck, leaned a sheet of metal and in the distance they could make out the vanishing red spot of a backpack marking the fleeing tribute.

Deep down Marten had to commend the boys for their ingenuity in preparing their fort, including the fact that the boy from District 3 had remained level-headed enough to use the sound of the cannon to mask the noise of getting the makeshift emergency slide in place and getting himself down. But more than anything he was angry with himself for allowing such an opening in the first place. They had had the ship surrounded, only for him and Connor to leave their post on that side of the ship.

"What are you waiting for?" he shouted at his allies and made to follow the tribute down the slide, but Abelia held him back.

"I would like nothing more than to pursue that kid right now. But you are bleeding, Marten, and Marinus sprained his ankle. While your wound might not be dangerous right now, if you run after him, you'll expose it to dust and dirt and it could become infected. I don't have to tell you what that means in the arena. Also I don't think it wise to leave Marinus behind, and he's certainly not able to keep up with us running after the boy. There'll always be a next time..."

Grudgingly Marten agreed. At least they had gotten one of the nuisances.

* * *

 _Madeline Parker, D11, 18Y_

It was the third day and Maddy couldn't help but feel a bit giddy at the prospect of seeing Griffin today. She had contemplated this over the last few days, but knew she would give it a try. Yes, she'd have to be careful about the name issue, but felt it would be worth it. Besides, the time alone had told her that if she continued this way, the arena would get to her. She had never been really alone at any time of her life, company had always been there. Yes, there had been moments, when she had wished the camps were not that close packed, especially near Reaping Days, but on the other hand, people had respected one another and if one had been sitting near a brook on their own with only one's thoughts for company, nobody disturbed them. Here though her thoughts were drying up or running in paths that easily crossed the line from where they were only ridiculous to where they were dangerous.

With this in mind, she slowly made her way across the hills, which still were her refuge – she had even found an old rowing boat, which, upended, offered her some shelter –, back to the Cornucopia. She knew full well that after the occurrences of the first night, this was now even more dangerous than before, when they had agreed on the meeting. Especially if the guard was the same girl again, Maddy considered it possible that she might just abandon her post at the first sight of Maddy. Not that she could fault her. The extra jacket really had been nice, especially during the night.

As she crested the second to last hill, she could see the Cornucopia in the distance. This had her almost come to a stop, but she continued on down between this and the last hill. She was now getting within visual range of the enemy and most likely had been already spotted. She could only hope that given the yet considerable distance, she was still safe enough.

She was now also faced with another problem: She had no idea from which direction Griffin might be approaching the Cornucopia. What if he was on the opposite side and couldn't see her? Besides, with the distance she was currently keeping, she couldn't even identify the guarding Career, so how was she supposed to identify Griffin or he her? Then again, how many tributes would be loitering around here? Still she decided to edge a little closer, even if it would make her more visible to the guard. The issue with not knowing from where Griffin would be coming remained though, so Maddy eventually settled for slowly circling the Cornucopia, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away. It was dangerous, she knew, but it seemed the only way. The feeling of danger increased tenfold when a cannon sounded through the arena. Still, she continued her way.

She was almost half way around the Cornucopia, when she heard loud footsteps behind her and even laughter coming from the west. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw a group of Careers approaching, obviously returning from the hunting trip, which had resulted in a tribute's death. Knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before they saw her and went to pursue her, Maddy broke out in a full run. She had to get out of there.

Dashing through the high grass, she saw a red spot in front of her. Recognizing it as a backpack and instantly concluding that another tribute was hiding there, she shouted: "Run! They are back! We have to get out of here!"

Without hesitation, the other one, a girl, sprang up and dashed away, in the same direction she herself was heading as this was clearly away as opposed to into the danger. Never looking back, both ran as long as the sun permitted, hoping it was enough in terms of distance. Only when they eventually slowed down, did Maddy recognize the girl, whom she had almost stumbled over, as Griffin's district partner.

Seeing her so close, the other girl, Cassiopeia she recalled, was instantly on alert, she grabbed the metal pipe she was carrying as weapon tightly, as if fearing that Maddy might attack her.

"No! No! Don't worry," Maddy gasped. "I'm the same as you... I'm just trying to survive, but I'm not actively out to take other tributes down."

Still the girl eyed her warily. She seemed to be willing to believe her, but was also suspicious of Maddy's motives. As if either of them still had the energy for a real fight. Not after the run to escape the Careers once more.

Maddy thought she saw a movement behind Cassiopeia and raised one of her spears. It pained her to see the other girl close her eyes in defeat, but then a rustle confirmed Maddy's earlier detection and she released her weapon. An indignant squawk followed and then something dropped to the ground. It was a bird. Maddy moved past Cassiopeia and picked it up, just as the girl opened her eyes again.

"Dinner," she said. "Care to join me?"

Cassiopeia looked at her in disbelief, clearly wondering if the offer was genuine. Then again, Maddy had shown that she didn't intend to kill her or that spear would have ended up in her instead of the bird. Eventually she said: "Sure, why not. The only thing I caught so far to eat was a snake yesterday."

Maddy was delighted with the answer. It had been a split-of-the-moment decision, but even if they parted after having shared the meal, she longed for some company. And since Griffin apparently had decided to stand her up, this might be her only chance for company for quite a while. The thought of having been stood up definitely hurt, but at the same time she also worried that he had perhaps been injured on any of the previous days and was therefore unable to come. But no, she couldn't allow her imagination to run away with her. This was the arena, she had to live in the present and take things as they were presented, no matter how much they hurt. So she shoved all fancy thoughts about Griffin aside and concentrated instead on the girl next to her. "Good to know that there are also snakes available as food source, though I haven't seen any yet," Maddy smiled, also glad to hear that her potential ally was not just a helpless hanger-on.

"Maybe they only live close to the arena's edge," Cassiopeia offered and began to tell of her journey. In turn Maddy told her of her supposed meeting with Griffin, and her adventure of the first night. As they continued talking and walking, by unspoken agreement, both decided to stick together. At least for now.

* * *

 _Tybor Rejewksi, D3, 14Y_

Even with the shadow-shelter, their fishing efforts had not borne fruit that day. Most of the fish had still preferred the shadow provided by the bush to their fishing roof, which had Tybor conclude that most likely the brook's bed was already warmed up too much for the fish to go there. Also, the fish might be suspicious of the suddenly appearing shadows, so maybe they would be luckier the next day, when the roof was not that new anymore.

With whatever little food they had found in their backpacks long gone, they were by now really getting hungry. "Why can't they call them the Plenty Games?" Tybor had sighed, his stomach growling.

"Because watching people die of gluttony is not a pleasant sight?" Cory had countered.

"As it if is such a pleasant sight to see us clobbered to death by other tributes." Being hungry always dampened Tybor's mood.

"We would still be clobbered to death by other tributes if the games were renamed to Plenty Games. But honestly, having to get through multiple layers of fat before being able to stab a tribute's heart does sound rather messy. Or messier than the current version." Cory grinned. Neither of the two had ever seen a truly fat person in their life. In the districts it was border-starvation which kept people from gaining too much weight and at the Capitol that problem was taken care of by surgery. So the idea of tributes resembling round balls of fat was hilarious.

"Imagine us rolling and bumping around the arena, trying to escape or chase each other..."

"Imagine the battle at the Cornucopia to grab weapons... they'd have to equip the tributes with grabbing hooks..."

"Imagine..."

The anthem signalling midnight interrupted this game and the two of them, sitting on the deck of their ship, saw the picture of the ill girl from District 9 floating in the sky.

"Well, let's go downstairs for some sleep," Cory suggested, but just then Tybor spotted something.

"Look!" Two small parachuted model ships came sailing down to them.

Both looked at each other, then at the ships with wide eyes. "Sponsor gifts? For us?" Disbelief coloured their voices, but it was unmistakable that the ships were heading their way. When they were close enough, both boys plucked the ships from the sky. Opening them, they each found a small loaf of bread.

"To our mentors!" Cory cheered.

"And to the sponsors!" Tybor added, both holding the bread up, before heartily tucking in.

Both knew they couldn't count on being constantly provided with sponsored food, so the next morning saw them bright and early attempting to catch fish again. And this time they got lucky.

Tybor though felt a little queasy at the prospect of having to gut those fish. Yes, he wanted to eat some, but... Cory, being a true friend, sensed his uneasiness and said: "If you get us a fire started, I'll take care of the fish." Tybor nodded eagerly and went to collect enough branches to roast their catch.

Little did they know that they'd be inviting danger by these actions...

As Tybor was running away from the fort as fast as his legs would allow, he couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that his friend was dead. He wanted to rave and rant and scream and cry, yet he felt strangely calm. Yes, Cory and he had talked about the potential need to abandon their ship and had planned the emergency escape accordingly. They had also assured each other that if by accident one of them died but the other had a chance to flee, they wanted the other to take that chance. But never had he expected it to be him to survive and actually flee. He knew he hadn't abandoned Cory, that his friend had been dead by the time he had shoved the slide over the side of the deck, so he didn't feel guilty. Still, underneath that calmness, there was a black hole filled with emotional turmoil, the topmost of which being rage. A rage that with every step he took seeped closer to the surface.

He didn't know where he was going, he didn't notice the sun's passage; he just walked and walked. By nightfall though, he found himself near the lake. On the far side, he could see the Cornucopia. Something inside him snapped. This was where those who had killed Cory today had their camp. He could see the faint light of a fire from the open side of the ship. Then a figure bent forward, adding some fuel to the flames.

Clutching the machete Cory had been working on almost every spare moment since they had set up their fort, Tybor moved forward. He didn't consider the danger he might be in, he didn't account for the fact that Careers usually only acted in groups. He just moved forward.

Instinct had him approach from the back of the ship, edging along the side of the hull, staying in the shadows. Then, with a mighty roar that sounded alien to him, he jumped around the edge, into the light of the fire, catching the boy from District 2 by surprise. Without thinking, Tybor raised Cory's machete and brought it down hard.

It slid off the boy's head, sliced through the ear and embedded itself deep between shoulder and neck. A gurgled gasp penetrated the night air, followed by the sound of a cannon going off, causing Tybor to come to his senses within a fraction of a second. Shocked by his own actions, he let go off the weapon and stumbled back. His foot got caught in branch at the edge of the fire, sending him down to the ground. The flames angrily licked at his trousers, his ankle, and sent him crawling away with all haste.

He had just killed a tribute. He had just killed someone. He had just killed...

Those thoughts echoed through his mind in an endless loop as he fled into the night.

* * *

 _Evan Harris, D5, 16Y_

It was nearing midnight again and Evan found himself once more watching the sky for a sponsor gift. Not for Chalen this time, but for himself. And for Alicia to a small part. That was, after all, the deal and he was pretty sure Balraj would see to it that the mentors from District 4 honoured their debt for helping Finnick.

All through the day he had contemplated what to hope for and whether or not to ask specifically for something. He had even discussed it with the others, but they all were aware that the decision was ultimately his, as he had been the one to seal the deal. He knew the offer was for two bottles of water or the equivalent in food or medicine. They thankfully didn't need medicine, but both food and water would be welcome. Between the two bottles they had, they had managed to keep themselves hydrated, but barely. It was as if their every waking moment was focussed on water, simply because they could not find a suitable container in which to store it to use Chalen's bottle more efficiently. As such the bottle alone in which the water came would be really useful. And judging by their general situation, water would be a comparatively expensive gift. Not as expensive as the bottle Woof had sent them the first night, but still pretty expensive. So the equivalent of one bottle of water in food might see them all sated for once. While both Alicia and Chalen knew their edible plants, these were pretty much the only things they had to eat. Catching birds for food was more difficult than any of them had expected, and it frustrated especially Haden to no end that he could not get these flying rats.

"Remember how long it took you to learn how to get the rats with your knife back home?" Alicia had asked him to help him remain patient. "You are also only getting used to the knife we made."

That was another sore point. Their only weapons were metal pipes and a crooked, ill-balanced would-be-knife. But of course hoping for a knife instead of water or food was more than unrealistic. No way would District 4 supply them with a weapon that could actually kill one of their own tributes.

Food though... The need for water kept them close to the stream and while Evan soon began to recognize the main edible plants himself, there weren't just enough within reasonable distance of their ship to keep them satiated for long. And Evan was loath to consider moving farther away from their ship to gather food. They just had to remain within running distance of their ship if they wanted to have a chance to defend themselves against other tributes, namely the Careers.

By dusk he had finally settled for just that: a bottle of water and the equivalent of the other in food. Finding one of the cameras they had spotted in the ship, he positioned himself in front of it and hoping that even if he was not currently featured in the live feed – which he most likely was not – his message would at least be forwarded to his mentor, he voiced his wish to the tiny camera.

So now he was waiting to see what they would be sent under cover of darkness and most likely the blaring of the anthem.

The others joined him, all looking forward to the gifts, as even Chalen and Haden knew the other two would share with them.

Finally the show began. First the anthem, then the two pictures of the tributes that died that day. And there it was: with the last strains of music, a ship, much larger than the one that had brought Chalen's bottle, sailed through the sky.

"Let me see, let me see!" Alicia shouted excitedly, when Evan had caught the ship.

His sparkling eyes mirrored her excitement as he removed the sail and then the top of the ship to reveal its contents. He grinned as he caught sight of the treasure they had been sent. Apparently his message had been received. "Here we go!" He said and produced the bottle of water first, then a loaf of bread, four apples and even a chunk of cheese.

Haden's eyes widened. "Can I have an apple?" He immediately asked, causing the others to laugh delightedly.

"We'll all have an apple, Haden," Evan assured him. "And some bread. And some cheese."

They all sat down and thoroughly enjoyed their meal. When they were finished Chalen looked up at the sky and sighed.

"What's the matter?" Evan asked.

"Those who died today...," she began. "I can totally picture the Careers taking out the boy from District Eleven. But who do you think killed that Career? It's already the second they lost... The first one, the girl from District One, might have been someone getting in a lucky strike during the Bloodbath. This one though..."

Evan shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I want to know."

"The thing is: There's obviously someone out there other than the Careers taking the initiative. All we currently do is try to have enough water and food. What if they expect us to up our act and actually go out there and take down some of the competition?" Chalen worried.

Alicia, who had been following their conversation, instantly shook her head. "You don't have to kill to win. Balraj didn't kill a single tribute, yet won. He simply out-stubborned everyone else."

Evan nodded. "Yes, I know, the gamemakers had not counted on him to survive this long and the Capitol most likely would have preferred to announce either of the two tributes in the final fight as winner, but the rules are that the last one standing will be declared winner, not the one with the most kills. And while I think I could kill in self-defence, I don't think I have it in me to actively hunt others to kill them. So out-stubborning everyone else, as Alicia so eloquently put it, sounds great to me."

* * *

 _District Eleven - Mrs. Hershel_

Nobody on the plantation objected to the TV in the kitchen staying on the whole time. Nobody asked their cook to turn down the volume. They all knew that if the blaring TV was what kept her together and actually ensured they got their dinner, then who were they to tell her no? Most of them missed Cory just as much, having seen the lad grow up among them, so were just as keen to catch a glimpse of him on the screen whenever the announcer told them that cameras had just switched to him and his friend. The way these two joked about their situation got them a good amount of screen time, though secretly Mrs. Hershel was wondering if this was her son, her real son, or the strange replica she had encountered when saying good-bye.

She was just preparing the vegetable for that day's soup, when the announcer once more had her focus on the goings-on in the faraway arena. A scream escaped her, as she saw the Careers approach the ship, the Capitol's multiple cameras showing what the boys at the ship could not see. It was a painful ninety minutes watching as the tension built up, wanting her scream at her son to run away, scream it out as loud as she could, all the way to the arena. But she was helpless.

Her scream had alerted the nearby workers, and by the time the Careers were pelted with stones, her husband had joined her, laying his arm around her shoulder and lending her strength for the inevitable outcome.

"At least he got to taste chocolate," Mrs. Hershel whispered as the cannon sounded, then broke down sobbing. There would be no soup that day.

Neither was there soup the day Chaff delivered Cory's letter. To the grieving parents it was as if they had been given back their son, only to lose him again, now knowing that it had been the child they had known for fourteen years that had died in the arena. Yet the thought that he at least got to taste chocolate remained with them. And till the very end, on the anniversary of his death, they would buy a single piece of the precious confectionery in his memory.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Regarding Celestia Snow: Based on the movies, she would only be four years old by the time of this story, but the books allow for a range of four to ten years, so I decided to go with that and have her be seven or eight.

To BENJALOL: Thanks for your reviews. I'm sorry you didn't like my killing Fancy so early in the games, but I will have to kill a lot more tributes in the course of the story, tributes that are even closer to my heart than Fancy, promising as she was. As for Cassiopeia, I did not forget about her.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3


	32. Chapter 29 - Arena: Fourteen

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 29: The arena – Fourteen**

 _Caesar Flickerman_

As the summary of the previous night had already shown, the way the tributes handled the food situation this year was a focus point. Not only for Breakfast TV but also for Caesar's late night talk round. More so in that for once the Big Alliance was also using the arena's sources and not simply relying on what the gamemakers had put in the Cornucopia. As such the TV-host had invited Lyme, the wizened mentor of District 2, seeing that the main impetus for that alliance for using the arena's resources so early had come from their girl tribute. As Capitol guest he had invited a chef. The girl from District 3, whose interview had led Caesar to contact the culinary industry regarding a prospective appearance in his talk round, might be dead already, but that didn't mean that a chef would not be an interesting talk guest. Because who better to ask about the nutritional value of those reeds and how to perfectly prepare them than a chef? The tributes might not have the benefit of a professional instructing them on how to make those certainly delicious dishes, not to mention access to the additional ingredients that might be required in the creation of them, but those recipes would make for a good conversation. Come to think of it, food always made for a good conversation.

Everything though changed when a dishevelled gofer burst into Caesar's dressing room. "The boy from District Three just went berserk and killed the boy from District Two!" he panted.

Caesar's eyes widened with disbelief. With barely an hour to go till the show, the last thing he had wanted was for such a thing to happen. While any death in the arena would be breaking news and had to be shown live during his show and then discussed with whoever was present, the death of one of the Big Alliance just before the show was too big to discuss properly with a mere chef, so he needed to switch guests. He thanked his lucky star that he had already invited the right mentor, but the other guest now depended on what had really happened in the arena.

The seasoned host switched on the TV, knowing that the second in-house channel would have an action replay available for the next hour. Watching the events unfold on the screen, Caesar cursed. He needed one from the betting industry to do this right, and those people were always extremely hard to convince to make an appearance on his show. Most likely because they feared that if their faces became too well known to the population, there would be enough disgruntled characters who lost more than they could afford in bets and would seek revenge. In that Caesar sympathized with the betting bosses, seeing how life in the Capitol was already dangerous enough for the rich and powerful, but it did not change the fact that many people at the Capitol were betting on the tributes from District 2 by tradition and would be most upset by this development. So he had to give those people an expert's analysis on which tribute to back next to keep things in track and for this only the highest echelons of the betting industry would do.

Immediately he was on the phone, trying to pull this last minute miracle in terms of talk round guests, while crossing his fingers that no further major events sabotaged tonight's show.

* * *

 _Coralee Lume, D7, 17Y_

Griffin had not been his usual self the whole day. He hadn't gone to the proposed meeting with Mary, for which Coralee was glad, yet she was worried about her ally at the same time. It was his insistence though that he take all three watches that night, which caused the alarm bells to ring in her mind. While she was glad that he hadn't really taken her up on her offer to do the middle watch every night and suggested instead that they rotate the watches among them, doing all watches on his own now was too much. They all felt every day anew the toll the arena forced for them, so not catching any sleep was no option. It only would see Griffin collapse from exhaustion at the most inopportune moment.

Maarck and she had exchanged mere looks and had come to the conclusion that they would allow Griffin to brood all he liked, but they would also ensure that he rested. Sitting on a rock a little away from the ship, thinking about whatever, was okay. Marching up and down all the time was not. So they would watch him from the ship, half the night each, and approach him if they thought he was taking things too far.

Coralee had picked the first half as she was actually quite curious to see whose deaths the cannons had signalled that day, while Maarck claimed that he slept better during the early hours of night as opposed to the early hours of morning.

As such she had seen some of the tension leave Griffin, when the pictures in the sky showed that Mary had survived the day. At least she assumed that this was what Griffin had been looking for when his face had been fixed on the night sky. Then however, the tension had seemed to seep slowly back into his body until he got up and began to pace as Maarck and she had been fearing. This was not good. Coralee abandoned her post at the ship and carefully walked over to her ally.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, when she was only about two meters away from him. Though she had come from a direction he might deem subconsciously as safe, it alarmed her that he had not appeared to notice her approach.

Apparently realizing the same thing, Griffin hung his head. "Perhaps it would be for the best."

Still, a pause of several minutes ensued, before he sighed and said: "I can't help but think that I let Mary down. I know how you think about it: I listened to your arguments and couldn't fault them. So, the danger of a meeting in the vicinity of the Cornucopia aside, I decided not to go because of you. You are my allies and I would be a fool to discount your opinions. Discounting my allies is not how my theory works, so that was never really an option."

"But you think that your impression about Mary was correct," Coralee offered. "That she is not in league with the Careers, but was genuine in her offer."

Griffin nodded. "So if anything happens to her now, I would feel as if it is partly my fault. That had I gone and she had joined us, she would be safe."

Instantly Coralee shook her head. "Griffin, this is the Hunger Games. Yes, we are safer as a group than we would be alone. Theoretically. Because of the strength in numbers. But our survival is not guaranteed. Look at the Careers. Back in the Capitol they outnumbered us two to one. Now, their alliance is only one person stronger than our group. Today's death might have been the guard watching their camp. The first one might have been bad luck at the very beginning of the games. But it shows that there's no guarantee. And, much as I hate to point it out, because I dread that moment, there will come a point where allies are forced to turn against one another as there can be only one victor."

"I know," Griffin said quietly. "And that's why part of me feels glad that I didn't go today. Because this way there's a chance that someone else will kill Mary; that it doesn't have to be one of us. That she doesn't have to kill one of us. That..."

There was a tinge of sadness mixed with longing in his voice, which startled Coralee. Eyeing him closely, her eyes widened slightly as a realization hit her. "Are you in love with her?" she blurted out before grasping what she had just said.

It was almost comical to watch Griffin's reaction. The confusion, the slight smile... "I don't know," he eventually said and Coralee could hear in his voice that he was honest. "But I feel a kind of connection to her."

She nodded, accepting his answer. "Still, don't feel guilty if anything happens. It would not be your fault. It would never be your fault. Even it is you who is forced to kill her. It would be the games."

"You sound suspiciously like my father, though I'm sure the two of you have never met." Griffin said.

"Hey, wisdom is not confined to one district. I'll have you know that both the lady who managed the orphanage I called my home and one of the Peacekeepers I worked for were good mentor material." She said lightly.

"You worked for the Peacekeeper?" Griffin asked curiously.

So Coralee told him a bit about her live and the dreams she had only come to realize she had when it was too late. It might be a rather personal topic, but so had been talking about Mary to Griffin. And a change of topic was certainly welcome to both.

Suddenly Coralee stopped midsentence.

"Wha..." Griffin began, but Coralee held up her hand, silencing him.

Turning around slowly, she searched for the sound that had disturbed her. "There!" she whispered, pointing to the west. "Someone's there!"

Both were instantly alert. Coralee gripped the metal pipe that served her as quarterstaff and which she carried everywhere, while Griffin bent down to gather up some stones. He had managed to fashion something resembling throwing stars, but they were currently with Maarck as he tried to squeeze enough venom out of some poor bugs to make them more effective.

"Should we go after whoever it is or wait?" Coralee asked quietly, tension marking her voice.

"I'm not sure," Griffin confessed. "If it was only one, it would be perhaps better to go after them. If it's a group..."

Coralee nodded. Having lost one of their own, the Careers might be out for revenge and as they couldn't know who killed their ally would settle for anyone they could get.

Whoever it was that was walking in this direction, they definitely were not paying attention to their surroundings, as soon enough the lone head of a boy became visible above the tall growing grass just beyond the cleared parameter. That no further head followed, sealed the boy's fate. While neither Coralee nor Griffin revelled in the idea of taking another's life, effective defence of their fort meant they had no other choice.

Griffin pointed to the north, indicating that he would head there and once in line with the tribute, would throw stones, which would send him straight to Coralee if she headed south.

Nodding, the two of them split.

Not five minutes later, the first stone whizzed through the air, with a person crushing through the tall grass audible mere seconds later. As predicted, the boy was heading away from the stones and directly towards Coralee. Having her staff ready, the boy never stood a chance as she downed him with a side whack that caught him straight at the temple.

Watching the fallen tribute Coralee realized she had a problem. The boy was only knocked out, not dead, and she just couldn't bash him till the cannon signalled she had managed to kill him. A sob threatened to escape her throat as the reality of the games crashed down on her. It was one thing to know the truth on a rational level, but a completely different thing to be expected to carry out this truth.

Griffin caught up with her. "Good job!" he said, causing Coralee to shake her head, her nerves getting the better of her.

"No cannon. Not dead!" she croaked out. "Can't..."

Looking at her, Griffin understood. He held out his hand for her staff. "Turn him on his back and I'll do it."

The boy was groaning, but thankfully didn't regain consciousness as Coralee turned him around.

Towering above him, Griffin brought up the metal pipe and with as much force as he could muster, brought it down on the boy's throat.

A cannon sounded and both released the breath they hadn't known they had held. A second explosion rang through the night, shocking both of them. "What was that?" Coralee asked.

"I don't know," Griffin replied. "But it sounded like that one explosion we had the first day."

The explosion had even woken Maarck to the point where he could not return to sleep as he appearance at the opening of their fortified ship proved, though he had no explanation either.

* * *

 _Chalen Nimara, D8, 15Y_

After their midnight meal, Alicia and Haden had been told to catch some sleep, as it was their turn doing the early morning watch, while Chalen and Evan remained on top of the deck. As such these two were inside the ship, when the cannon signalled the end of yet another tribute. But more frightening than that was the low rumble Chalen felt running through the ship, alerting her that something was about to go wrong.

"Evan!" she shouted, but he was already making for the descending stairs.

However, he had no chance to reach them, much less the two of their allies who were down there, when the whole ship exploded around them.

Screaming, Chalen felt herself being hurled through the air. The whole world seemed upside down. Fractions of a second spread to eternity, and when she finally was back on the ground, the impact knocked her almost out. Around her, metal debris was flying through the air, several pieces hitting her painfully.

Her ears were ringing from the detonation, blocking out all other sounds. She was sure she was groaning, as she tried to sit up once the air seemed missile-free again, but she couldn't hear it. Instinctively she looked around for her allies. Had there been further cannons, but she hadn't heard them? No, she decided, shaking her head and instantly regretting it as the world spun around her and her head informed her of a splitting headache. Still, she was sure, she would have heard a cannon, even above the sound of the explosion, had it cost one or more of her allies their life.

Struggling to get up, she began to look around. The ship was now only a pile of scrap metal. But where were her friends? Staggering around, she found one of the pipes she had thought might be suitable as improvised weapons, but now found they also worked as walking staffs.

Continuing her awkward way around the ship, she soon saw Evan just getting up himself. Everything inside her wanted to rush towards him, but her body would simply not comply with this command. Yet Evan had seen her and was making his way towards her as well. Wordlessly they looked each other over. Chalen noticed a small gash below Evan's left eye and the way he favoured his right leg.

"You look like shit!" he said, or at least that's what she thought he said as she could only see his lips moving. She gestured at her ears and slowly shook her head.

He nodded, understanding. He then pointed to the ship. Yes, they had to continue looking for Haden and Alicia. Chalen was actually relieved as this confirmed her impression that there hadn't been any more cannons.

Slowly they circled the ship, looking for a sign of their two friends, hoping despite all things pointing the opposite direction that the explosion had catapulted them out of the mountain of metal instead of burying them below it.

Time passed and the ringing in their ears lessened at least to the degree where they could communicate by shouting at each other. Both realized that this would give them away to any hunting Careers, but they felt better for hearing each other again.

After their third round, they knew that their only hope was now digging their friends out of the destroyed ship. And both understood that if either Alicia or Haden, or both, were injured, the longer they waited, the more likely it would be that they would hear another cannon.

"Be careful, though!" Evan shouted. "And look out for anything of our stuff we might still use."

It sounded cold, but Chalen couldn't fault him. What use was it if they dug out their friends alive, only to perish from thirst or being unable to treat any wounds because they couldn't find their first aid kit?

The sun was high up in the sky and all they had found so far was the empty water bottle that had so delighted them the previous night. They were hoarse, shouting for their friends at intervals, hoping to catch a sound that might indicate them alive and conscious. They were thirsty and dusty, tired and downright exhausted, yet they didn't give up.

Their hope resurged when Chalen spotted something that looked like fabric... it was a sleeve. Pulling the debris aside, they worked frantically, till they had actually freed Haden. He was still unconscious, but a quick check showed that he was breathing. He was alive.

"Maybe a concussion," Chalen offered.

"Let's get him out of here, down to the brook."

It was a struggle, but they managed. Checking him over for other wounds they couldn't find anything they thought was life-threatening, though the swelling at the back of his head was worrying and backed up the theory of a concussion. Knowing they had still to look for Alicia, they could only hope that now, that he was no longer buried under the metal, Haden would regain his consciousness on his own.

As Alicia had been lying close to Haden, finding her was now only a matter of minutes, though getting her out was almost too much. Her leg was stuck under what had to be the largest piece of metal left of their ship, and was lying at an unnatural angle.

Using another piece as lever, Evan managed to lift the piece while Chalen pulled out Alicia, but both shared looks that clearly said that neither was sure they were actually doing the little girl a favour by extracting her from the wreckage. But again, they dragged their unconscious ally to the brook. Then they returned to see if they could salvage any of their stuff.

Their relief to actually find their two water bottles intact easily matched their feelings upon finding their two friends alive. They knew they should return for more, to find at least their first aid kit, but they couldn't. They had reached their limit. And they needed water.

The sun was sinking behind the horizon when they finally found the strength to tentatively discuss their situation.

"Looks like your theory of the gamemakers wanting us to up our act was not too far from the truth," Evan said, though he was too tired to even sound bitter at this.

"We knew that being so far away from the Cornucopia would give us a certain security from the Careers, but we should have taken into account that the gamemakers sooner or later tend to herd straying tributes back to the centre of action," Chalen said, equally emotionless.

"So, once these two are back up, we'll be obedient little tributes and head back?" Evan asked.

"Unless you want to be caught in a sandstorm on top?" Chalen could see no other way.

* * *

 _Connor Tobin, D4, 18Y_

Connor was seething. Someone had gotten to their camp and managed to kill Marinus. Though, as Abelia had pointed out, the fact that nothing had been stolen showed that it hadn't been the girl from the first night. This in itself was confusing. Why attack Marinus and then leave without taking advantage of the situation by raiding their supplies?

Then the nuisance they had been forced to let escape earlier that day had been killed sometime during the night. Again not by their hand. Not that they had known at the time whose death the cannon had announced, but even then it had been a death by someone else's hands. Didn't those tributes know that they were the ones doing the killing? The others were only there to be killed! At least at that stage of the games.

Then there was that additional explosion, same as the first day, and their group had no idea what it was about. The first they could have put down as perhaps some animal messing with a gamemakers' trap, triggering it prematurely. But that this explosion had immediately followed a tribute's cannon indicated that it was a planned thing. And again the openness of the arena had made it impossible for them to gather in which direction the explosion had occurred.

Not that it had kept them from investigating. Or going out hunting. Or whatever one wanted to call it. Though Connor didn't like the notion that they were now down to three scouting the arena as one remained at the camp to guard their still considerable supplies.

And despite the fact that they had set out earlier than was their usual wont, it was now nearing noon and they had nothing to show for. Not even a single encounter with a lucky tribute who managed to escape.

"We have to turn back," Abelia said and held up her empty water bottle.

"Not yet!" Connor growled. He wanted, he needed action.

"Connor!" Abelia exclaimed, taken aback. "It's been at least an hour since we crossed the last stream. And there's no guarantee we'll encounter another one in this direction."

"Then you should have rationed your water," he said and triumphantly produced his still half full bottle.

"That's stupid and you know it!" she countered.

"How would I know? Just because you say it?" Connor was not giving in.

Marten, who had been quiet so far, interjected: "You well know that Abelia is the one with the survival skills, not you or I. I have no reason to mistrust her words."

"Connor, there have people died from dehydration while they had still drinkable water available. Your body doesn't care about later; if it's thirsty it wants water now." Abelia lectured.

"Tell you what, you two can go back, I will go on!" Connor shouted. He was fed up with everyone telling him what to do, with being limited in their excursions.

The other two exchanged glances.

"Don't be dumb, Connor," Marten said. "I can understand your wish to explore further and see if we can't smoke out some tributes, but right now we don't carry enough supplies with us to last on a longer scouting mission. This is not even taking into consideration that it would be beyond foolish to continue with the sun this high in the sky."

"You are not the boss! You can't order me. Neither of you."

"In that you are right," Abelia said calmly. "But if Marten and I decide that we want to head back and you decide to go on alone, I can guarantee you that we would treat you like any other tribute when you come too close to the Cornucopia."

"You wouldn't!" Connor exclaimed.

"Give me one good reason why we shouldn't," Marten backed up Abelia's stance.

"I'm still a member of the alliance."

"Right now you are," Marten agreed. "But the majority of us wants to turn back now. So you are outvoted, since you couldn't present us convincing arguments why we should go on instead. That's how an alliance works. To go on despite the vote, would mean you wish to leave the alliance. You are of course free to do so and neither Abelia nor I would hold you back. We would even refrain from killing you on the spot, because that's how the alliance works. When we break up all of us will be given a chance. But if you then returned later to the Cornucopia, you would no longer be a member of the alliance and we would not hesitate to take you out of the competition."

Connor was taken aback at having the truth spelt out so plainly.

"On the other hand, if you abide by the vote and return with us to the Cornucopia, you could then make a case of us preparing for an all-night excursion and taking sufficient supplies with us. The choice is yours." Marten concluded.

Connor so longed to storm away. He hated how Marten could present this so calmly. But then again, the other had also kept quiet all through the training days, only to reveal a depth in planning and ruthlessness in the arena that had taken them all by surprise. So it shouldn't shock him now to see the same deceptive calmness displayed towards him. And what was worse, he could even see the merit of Marten's proposal. "Okay!" he grunted. "But I'll take you up on the suggestion that we do an all-nighter next."

"We can all use the time we walk back to think over what we would need to take with us," Abelia suggested, obviously glad that they had solved the situation peacefully.

As to the degree of peace, Connor was uncertain. He was far from happy with the solution, though he accepted it. Thankfully Rufa didn't need much convincing that an all-nighter would be the right thing to do. This however raised the question whether they should all go or as usual have one remain behind.

"I think we should all go," Rufa said. "From how receptive we are to the suggestion, I can't see any of us volunteer to stay and guard the camp."

"Which means we'll have to carry a lot more with us than we'd usually do as we wouldn't be guaranteed that our stuff is still there when we get back. Aside from the fact that for an all-night excursion we would carry more water and food with us anyway." Marten voiced.

"Yes, but it's not that much more. It's a sleeping bag and a few matches each." Rufa argued. "We already carry most weapons we want with us."

"We could render the remaining weapons, which we have kept as back-up so far, useless. It's not my preferred solution, but I don't see the need to carry all our weapons with us, especially if it's weapons we don't like to use anyway," Abelia suggested.

Connor nodded. "Why don't we each assemble a pile of things we deem essential, same as we would most likely do when we broke up? We could use this excursion even as a trial run for that future event, and see if we want to change anything in our packs when we actually break up."

"If we get a chance to rearrange our packs." Marten cautioned.

"I think it's a given that we would set up enough traps to discourage any plundering tribute," Rufa said, liking Connor's idea. "I know, it's still a risk, but one we should take."

"Okay. Let's do this. Prepare for setting out with the anthem. While not strictly an all-nighter, it should give us enough time to rest, prepare the Cornucopia and still leave us with double our normal expedition time." Marten said.

The others nodded. So it was to the picture of the dead boy from District 3 that they set out.

* * *

 _Haden Steinmetz, D9, 16Y_

His head hurt. And he was hungry. And he wanted Alicia to wake up.

Haden still had problems to understand why their ship had been destroyed. "But we haven't done anything wrong," he had complained. "Why would they take our ship from us?"

"Because they could," Evan had said, though Chalen had added patiently: "They don't like it if the adventurers are too far apart from the others. And our group was considered too far away from the rest. So they told us that we should head back, by destroying the ship."

"But they hurt Alicia!" That upset Haden most. He could perhaps have accepted that the gamemakers, who directed this adventure, thought they had to take the ship away. But they didn't have to hurt anyone doing this. They could have waited till the next morning when they were all down by the brook. Then nobody would have been hurt.

As both Evan and Chalen had still felt tired and Haden had felt nauseous when moving too fast, they had stayed the whole of the night and also the next day by the brook. Haden had woken up sometime before midnight, but it was not until late in the afternoon of their fifth day in the arena that Alicia stirred for the first time.

Haden was overjoyed and even managed to forget for a while that he was hungry. Chalen and Evan had bound up her leg as best they could, though they were still uneasy about it. But now that Alicia was waking up, she could tell them how to fix her. After all, Chalen had even found their first aid kit among the rubble.

Unfortunately Alicia did not wake up for long before she fell unconscious again. This worried all of them and Haden could see Chalen and Evan exchanging glances, which obviously meant something, but it was something Haden could not make out.

The next time Alicia woke up they at least managed to get her to drink something, but it was only on the third such episode that she could tell them to check her all over and see if they could feel some unusual bulb under her skin somewhere. They found one, but the process of discovery caused her to pass out once more.

"What's the matter with Alicia?" Haden wanted to know.

"Wish that I knew," Evan sighed. "We'll have to wait till she wakes up again. Do you think you can watch over her, while Chalen and I see if we can find some of the plants to eat?"

Haden knew he should say yes, that he was a big boy and could do this. But he didn't want to remain here, next to a ship that had exploded. What if it exploded again? Instinctively he knew however that Evan would simply call him afraid and scoff at him. So he needed to come up with a reason why they had to stick together that even Evan thought was a good one "But what if Alicia wakes up while you are gone?" he eventually asked. He wouldn't know what to do. Even if Alicia could tell him, he wasn't sure that she would stay awake long enough for him to do what she asked. And what if what he did make her fall asleep again?

"He's right," Chalen said.

"But Alicia can't walk..." Evan replied, pain in his eyes. "I'm not even sure we should risk moving her."

"I can carry her," Haden immediately offered. She was after all only a little girl and he was strong.

"And getting her out of the ship down here doesn't seem to have worsened her condition. Remember that sandstorm we talked about last night," Chalen added. "It's already dusk again."

"Okay," Evan said at last. "We'll all go."

It was slow going, but they kept to the brook. So, even as it got darker, they could make out their way by following the soft murmur of the water. And while they could not look for plants to eat in the darkness, they could drink whenever they wanted.

Finally, with their third rest, dawn broke. "Now we can look for some plants," Chalen suggested. Haden knew she was talking about Evan and her collecting plants, leaving him and Alicia behind. He didn't like it, but he was really tired by now and he was also really hungry.

"We'll stay within calling range," Evan added. "You can call us if Alicia wakes."

Reluctantly Haden nodded.

He was worried, because Alicia had not stirred all the time they had been moving down the stream. Only the fact that he could hear her breathing assured him that she was still alive.

Haden didn't know how much time had passed, when suddenly he heard something rustle in the grass. Looking around, he could not detect anything, but hoped it was Evan and Chalen. He called out for them but didn't get an answer. Instead the rustling got louder. Again he called out to his friends, only for four strangers to break through the grass on the other side of the brook. Haden's eyes widened as he recognized them to be the rats his father had warned him of. But before he had time to react or really do anything about them, one had shouted: "Look what we have found!" while another was already throwing a spear.

Following the weapons arc through the air with his eyes, Haden realized it was heading straight for Alicia. "No!" He screamed and threw himself in the weapon's way. He tried to bat it away, but still being a bit dizzy from when the ship had knocked him out, he was too slow. The spear connected with his tummy, sticking out of it like his knife used to stick out of the rats back home. It hurt, but at least it had not hit Alicia.

He heard splashing and saw the rats cross the stream. He struggled to keep them from Alicia. They were too many however. They were four, he counted. One drew a wicked, long knife, almost as long as Haden's arm, and approached his little friend. Another shoved him aside, while one of the girls slashed a knife like the one he had used at the training centre at him.

Alicia...

* * *

 _Abelia Shale, D2, 18Y_

Connor had been right: They all felt better for going out on longer expeditions. This didn't mean they found anything or rather anyone that first night and morning, but they agreed that even with the lack of success they were showing a good deal of initiative, which the Capitol surely would appreciate. Being from the prominent districts, they were all aware that the games were not only about surviving. It might be their ultimate personal goal, but the Capitol expected more. They expected action and being presented with boredom instead would see the gamemakers interfere. It was part of why they trained so much back home. Yes, training gave them better survival changes in the games, but it also gave them the skills to provide the action the Capitol expected. It also allowed them to play the games according to their strategies instead of the gamemakers' ideas and it got them a lot of backing from the Capitol in terms of sponsors. Which again increased their chances of actually winning the games.

As such it was a given that they would repeat their excursion the next night. It also helped that while they had been away, nobody had raided their stash, so they actually got a chance to repack. They spent the afternoon setting up nets for fishing, then rested a few hours, before finishing with a hearty meal.

Even with supplementing their supplies with fishing and plant gathering, the food provided by the gamemakers was fast dwindling. Abelia hated to think what their situation would have been by now if not for their own food procuring. It had seemed so much at the beginning, but even with two people down, they still consumed food at an alarming rate. But rationing it would only weaken them in the longer run, so nobody had suggested it so far.

For their second long expedition, they had decided to follow up a stream that fed into the lake at the south west edge. "We haven't had a single death yet which we could attribute to dying by dehydration, so we have to assume that each one of them at least has a compartmentalized water bottle," Abelia had argued. "So most would stay close to a brook or stream to have a water source ready at hand."

She had gotten no objections, so up the stream it was, always staying a few meters away from the glittering band though, so as to give them at least some sort of concealment from any tribute encamped directly on the water banks. Still for the first six hours they found nothing except an empty ship wreck. It looked as if this ship had not even been used by ayn tribute as shelter, it just sat there ignored. But about an hour later, they suddenly heard someone call out for two tributes.

"Chalen? Evan?" a boy's voice could be heard.

Not being able to see the tribute, they looked at each other, coming all to the same conclusion: Someone was down by the bed of the stream though the grass and reeds currently obscured him from view. His calling for his allies though meant that he had heard either his allies or them approach. Hoping it was the latter and knowing they didn't have much time, they crossed the remaining few meters to the water.

The fight was over within seconds, if one could actually call it a fight. And while it was satisfying to have whittled down the competition by two tributes, Abelia took no pleasure from having killed the idiot boy from District 9. Nor did she think Marten took any pleasure from ending the little girl's life.

More upsetting however was the loud explosion which followed the cannons. There definitely had to be a pattern to these explosions, but they had yet to detect it. If only they knew what had exploded. It couldn't be for the random sound effect alone.

"What about the two the boy had been calling for?" Rufa asked, while Connor removed his spear from the boy and they all prepared to walk away a little distance to allow the hovercrafts to collect the dead bodies.

"The cannons will have scared them off and we have no clue in which direction they might have gone," Marten shrugged.

Abelia nodded. "And whichever way they have gone, they will avoid that stream for the near future. So I suggest we head back and pick a new brook for tonight."

All nodded, though Connor once more looked as if he wanted to argue in favour of pursuit. Abelia began to wonder how much longer their alliance would hold. There were now only eleven tributes remaining, three more and they would break up anyway as by tradition their alliance lasted no longer than Final Eight. And while she had already assembled her pack with everything she considered essential, she promised herself that she would see if she couldn't squirrel away a little more food and an extra fishing net bag. Just in case there was no returning to Cornucopia after their next trip.

Their way back was occupied by a discussion about the explosions.

"I think we can all agree that they are not random," Marten began.

"One thing they seem to have in common is that they always occurred right after a cannon, but not every time a cannon told of the death of a tribute," Rufa offered.

"Well, then let us try and see if we can remember which tribute's death was tied to an explosion," Abelia said. "The first one was after the Bloodbath and the last one just now after we killed those two tributes."

"The other one was after what we now know had been the boy from District Three's cannon." Marten finished. "This was also the only time it was linked to only one death."

"Maybe the explosions occur when a certain number of tributes have been killed," Rufa offered.

Abelia shook her head. "The first one was after six dead tributes. The next one was after another five deaths. So even if it was a sort of progression, the last one was way too soon."

"It would be much the same with going for equal kills of boys and girls," Marten said. "While we could say that the first one occurred after the bloodbath because by then three girls and three boys had been killed, the next one should then have occurred after Marinus' death, as then the numbers were balanced again with an additional two girls and boys dead. And the last one doesn't fit either as there's currently one more boy dead than girl."

"But I think you are up to something there," Abelia said a little excitedly. "The boy and girl theory... where else do we have that theme?" She didn't even wait for any of them to answer, but provided the reply herself: "The Reaping! There's a boy and a girl tribute from every district. And if we look at it, there are exactly three districts which are already out of the games. Both from District Twelve died in the Bloodbath, which would match the first explosion. The second occurred after the boy from District Three was killed, and his district partner was already long dead by then. And now we killed the boy from District Nine while again his district partner was already dead for several days."

"There's an easy way to test your theory..." Connor said, raising his spear.

"Connor, what are you doing?" The others shouted aghast.

"Well, there's only one from District One and one from District Two remaining. If killing either of you results in an explosion, the theory would have been proven!"

"And you really think we would just stand by and let you try this?" Marten said, raising his sword, while Abelia got her knives ready.

"Connor, don't!" Rufa pleaded.

All were aware that should she decided to side with Connor, his crazy idea might actually stand a chance, so Abelia was more than relieved to see that the other girl was not yet willing to give up the strength of the group.

Tense seconds went by, till Connor lowered his spear and with a forced chuckle said: "Just kidding guys, just kidding."

The crisis had been averted. For now. But Abelia was not sure how much Connor really had been kidding.

* * *

 _District Nine - Mr. Steinmetz_

He had always known that his son could not win the games. His boy could have been the toughest fighter, but with his mental limits the Capitol would never have stood for him being declared victor. As such Mr. Steinmetz had already wept tears of joy when Haden had made it out of the ship's explosion alive. It would have been all too easy for the gamemakers to engineer Haden's death this way. Had that occurred, it would have felt as if the Capitol had stolen his boy twice; first by forcing him into the arena and then by not giving him a chance. They might as well have passed a law then, sentencing all people with mental disabilities to death.

But this way he got to live and when death came, his son went down protecting a friend. Mr. Steinmetz couldn't help thinking that though Haden had not been able to prevent the little girl's death, he would have died at peace, knowing he had done his best. It was one of the things he had tried to instil in his son from early on: to always try and do one's best.

A knock at the door brought him out of his musings and grief. Opening the door, he was surprised to see the girl he had witnessed standing up for Haden at the Reaping.

"Hello Mr. Steinmetz," she said, clearly a little nervous. "I... I just wanted to say I was sorry for your loss. Haden was a good boy, a brave boy. The way he cared about Kersia and that little girl Alicia... he even took a spear for her. I don't care what others say about him, but had I been forced to go to the arena, I would have been glad to have your son by my side." With this, she turned around and dashed away, as if afraid that he would reject her words.

Mr. Steinmetz stood there for several minutes, marvelling at the impact his son apparently had on others' lives in his last days on earth, and he found that he was incredibly proud of his son.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3

Tybor Rejewski, D3 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Haden Steinmetz, D9 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Alicia Quinn, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1


	33. Chapter 30 - Arena: Eleven

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 30: The arena – Eleven**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

As expected, there had been a wave of pity in the Capitol at the simultaneous deaths of the youngest tribute and the simple-minded but lovable boy. Though, as most of the audience were aware that these two never really stood a chance and as the tributes from the Big Alliance had given them swift and almost painless deaths, the pity soon died down and business as usual resumed. After all, the growing tension among the Big Alliance was much more interesting. On his way to work this morning, Claudius had actually seen people out in the streets, selling team-shirts with portraits of their favourite tribute of the alliance depicted on them, to raise sponsor money for that tribute once the alliance broke up. Claudius was really curious to see how this whole situation played out.

The other question dominant in his mind was whether or not the gamemakers would up the stake anytime soon. So far there had been a steady progress in terms of tributes being taken out, but right now, the remaining eleven were clustered together in four groups, thus seriously decreasing the likelihood of accidental encounters. Of these four groups two were also moving constantly around, avoiding the shelter-offering ships as much as possible, thanks to the knowledge that they could blow up on them at any moment. And with the big alliance being away from their ship at least half the day, the gamemakers could really only disrupt one alliance with their ship-trap. As such, unleashing other traps on the tributes looked more and more likely if they decided to act. And Claudius had no idea what these would be. Yes, he could imagine all kinds of things given the terrain, but he didn't know whether any of these actually had been built into the arena. As such, watching the games could never be boring to him.

* * *

 _Evan Harris, D5, 16Y_

"Evan? Chalen?"

As promised they had stayed within hearing range and were just about to respond, when the added "Is that you?" from Haden stopped them dead in their tracks. All thoughts of him calling for them, because Alicia had woken, fled their minds as they hadn't been near enough for Haden to hear their mere movements. Other voices could now be heard, fainter but still recognizable as those belonging to the Careers.

No more than a minute later, the cannon echoed two times through the arena, signalling the deaths of their friends and allies, as neither of them had been in any shape to defend themselves against that pack. The cannon was closely followed by a sound both Evan and Chalen had hoped never to hear again. Instinctively both threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads with their arms, trying to protect themselves from the explosion.

This probably saved their lives. Not that whichever ship exploded was anywhere near them, but the Careers were still in the vicinity. Being on the ground though, the tall grass hid them. Luckily nobody decided to check the immediate surroundings and a few minutes later, everything was quiet again. The hovercraft appeared, signalling that the Careers had moved on and that they themselves were also far away enough. Nevertheless both decided to wait a little longer. And maybe even a little bit longer than that.

When they eventually got back up again, they exchanged glances of sorrow. Yet neither shed a tear.

"Maybe it was for the best this way," Evan said.

Chalen slowly nodded. "Alicia was already in a bad way."

"I think that bulb she had us looking for blocked something vital in her body which caused her to lose consciousness over and over again, and I wouldn't have known what to do about it," Evan confessed. "A broken leg is bad enough, but this... It downright scared me."

"Most likely she didn't even notice what was happening to her. At least, that's what I hope." Chalen offered and Evan nodded.

"Same here. And I think Alicia's eventual death would have destroyed Haden. He was already pretty much distraught over losing Kersia... I don't know if he would have listened to us after that and not gone after whoever he thought guilty of Alicia's death, regardless of his own chances of survival," Evan pondered, not voicing aloud that Haden just as likely might have considered either Chalen or him the guilty party.

His remaining ally agreed and both slowly walked on. They left the stream behind, fearing that this was what the Careers were following, and instead walked to the north-west.

"Any plans?" Chalen asked after a while. The sun was rising relentlessly and soon it would be too hot for them to keep going.

"I don't like the idea of seeking refuge in another ship. But neither do I like the idea of being out in the open." Evan said. "However, from where I stood at launching, I could see hills over my right shoulder. It might be still a good deal away, but at least there we wouldn't be visible over a distance of several kilometres."

"Sounds good enough for me."

With this they walked on, trying to make their way back to the lake and the Cornucopia while staying far away enough from either to avoid being seen by the Careers. When the heat became unbearable, they rested amongst a cluster of scruffy bushes, crouching low and putting the jackets over the branches to create at least some shadow. Dusk was more than welcome when it finally occurred, but soon they faced a completely different problem.

Having walked most of the day and the previous night, with the tension over losing two of their friends while being unable to help added, not to mention still being affected by the lingering after-effects of the explosion, both were quite exhausted.

"I'm so tired I don't think even the anthem could wake me up were I to lay down now and fall asleep," Chalen moaned.

"I'm not much better either. Though I think fear of being attacked, would prevent me from sleeping too deeply, so I would definitely hear the anthem," Evan replied.

"You are right... though knowing that you'll wake up in time to wake me should danger approach, I might actually sleep that deeply." Chalen smiled weakly.

Dropping down where they stood to sleep, however, was not an option. With the sun long down, the air was getting decidedly cooler. This though applied doubly for the ground. Back when they had spent their nights in the ship, they had never noticed it that much, and even after the explosion, with four bodies sharing the heat, it had been bearable. Now though... Even huddling close together while only sitting down for a rest and some water, saw them shiver. Lying down never was an option. Same applied for lighting a fire to stave off some of the cold, as it would only alert the Careers. As such they could do nothing but wearily drag their tired bodies on, every step now becoming a small victory of will over body.

"We might have decided not to use a ship anymore for shelter," Chalen whined, "as it might explode around us, but right now I would not think twice about this."

"I would," Evan protested stubbornly.

"Yes? What good is it to die out here of exhaustion and exposure? It's a much surer way of dying than taking the chances with a ship wreck." Chalen pointed out.

"Well, maybe, but it's not as if we are spoilt for choices," he retorted a bit sarcastically. "Or do you see any ship?"

The anthem put an end to their squabble, as both sobered at the sight of their dead friends in the sky.

"I'm sorry," Evan said quietly, though he got annoyed, when he didn't get an immediate response of the same kind from Chalen. When he looked at her though, to see what was keeping her, he soon saw that something much more precious than any apology was heading their way: A sponsor gift ship.

Neither had expected one. They both knew that the water bottle Chalen had received the first night must have been among the top range of sponsor gifts and the water and food three nights ago had been all the sponsor gifts Evan had ever expected.

Finally the ship was close enough to pluck it from the air. Not surprisingly it bore an eight on the parachute.

"Come on, open it!" Evan urged.

"I can't," Chalen confessed. "I'm so nervous about what it might be that my hands are shaking."

Imagining that the inside contained a mug of tea – which in itself wouldn't be that much, but right now it would be more than welcome – and that Chalen was spilling it with her shaking hands, was enough for Evan to take the ship from her hands. He immediately, from the weight of the ship, deduced that it wouldn't be a hot drink, yet any gift could only be an improvement of their current situation. Prying the ship open, something shimmering golden became visible. Evan gasped. "A Mylar blanket!" he exclaimed, not wanting to even guess how much it must cost in terms of sponsor money at this point in the games. "Chalen, your sponsors are awesome! They probably just saved our lives!" And he spontaneously hugged his ally.

Chalen still required an explanation though as to what that thin blanket was, not having visited the shelter-making station at the training centre, but once she understood the heat-reflective properties, she, too, was ecstatic. Here was a possibility to get some much needed sleep without freezing to death, alerting Careers or being blown to bits.

With renewed energy, the two began to gather reeds and grass to make an insulating bed, before wrapping the thin foil around their two bodies huddled as close together as possible to make the most of their precious gift.

* * *

 _Rufa Coley, D4, 17Y_

Their next nightly exploration had brought nothing but more tension among the group. Connor constantly wanted to push for more than the rest of them were willing to commit to, or what was even reasonable. So far though, they had avoided an open breach.

Sometimes, however, Rufa wondered if Connor was not pushing so much to force that breach onto them. Or rather to force them to exclude him so that he had a legitimate reason to go after them. A surprise attack the second they declared him persona non grata at the Cornucopia might actually see him successful at killing one of them – and even escaping alive. It would force them to split and one on one Connor stood really good chances of success. He was exhibiting just that edge which often marked the victor from one of their districts.

Rufa guessed that if this was his intention, he would attempt to take out Marten first. The tribute from District 1 had shown the same edge when he had killed Tourmaline, so in this he was Connor's greatest competition. It would not do to discount Abelia though. She had had her fair share of kills and proven that under her calm demeanour she was maybe just as ruthless a killer as Marten. And with her survival skills... But what about herself? Would Connor perceive her as a threat? Or would he take her out as the potentially weakest and easiest to kill of the three? This thought didn't sit too well with her.

And what about the other two? Suppose them to split with no instant death... Would either Abelia or Marten come after her, again perceiving her as the easiest prey? Even if only to send a message to the other two, adding the element of tension of not knowing who exactly killed her?

Again, Rufa didn't like that thought much. No matter which way she approached this problem, the current situation always seemed to point towards her being the losing one.

As they made their way back to the Cornucopia, it became clear to her that she would have to take pre-emptive measures. Luckily she had taken great care when assembling her pack from the beginning, so nobody had thought much about it, when for their longer explorations she had added just a bit more of this and removed some of that to add something else instead. She doubted anyone recalled all the helpful stuff she had put at the bottom of her pack in the beginning. Like the first aid kit or the matches. The length of rope. The folded piece of thin plastic tarp. And as they now all also not only carried a water bottle and a little food, but also a sleeping bag each, as these were too valuable to leave at the Cornucopia, she was now ready to break away from the others whenever she wanted.

Doing so, however, without arousing suspicion and allowing her a decent head start, was not so easy. Simply running away now would most likely result in at least Connor pursuing her and though she would have the element of surprise on her side, it might not get her out of the range of a spear thrown by him fast enough. Sneaking away while the others were sleeping in preparation of the next excursion was also not fool proof. They were all light sleepers, so one of them at least was bound to wake and alert the others. It might get her more of a head start than just running away, but it was still not enough to make her feel comfortable with.

Rufa was actually getting a little bit desperate as they neared their base camp and she still had no decent plan. She felt that this afternoon and evening might actually be her last chance to get away from them safely.

All too soon they saw the first glittering of the lake at the distance, with the Cornucopia just a few steps away from visibility. It was the lake however which gave Rufa the key idea. "Finally!" she said, instantly putting the plan, which was growing in her mind by the second, into action. "Almost home."

Abelia chuckled at the notion of calling the Cornucopia home and even Marten smiled.

"Hey, it's not so much the ship I care about, but I'm hungry and we set up the nets before we started last night. There are bound to be some fish caught inside..."

"Only someone from District Four could be that keen about fish, when all we've had for days now was mainly fish," Marten grumbled good-naturedly, though he had never turned down his share of fish or any of the plants Abelia had them pick.

"Well, it's an acquired taste," Connor said and the others laughed with him, glad to see their ally attempting to joke.

"Same with these," Abelia said, pointing to the plants she had begun picking as soon as they had caught sight of the lake. There was no use carrying the plants over a large distance, when there were still enough closer to the Cornucopia.

"Not that I want to diminish their nutritional value, but by now, I would even prefer Brussels sprouts over these, and it was the one dish I absolutely hated back home," Marten said with a grin.

Talk about food occupied them for another half hour, all the time bringing them closer to both the lake and the Cornucopia.

"Why don't you go ahead to the ship and already start the fire, while I go and see about the fish?" Rufa eventually offered.

"Sure, why not," the others shrugged and they parted ways, with Rufa veering slightly closer to the lake's edge than the others.

Rufa wanted to shout with glee that her plan had worked so well, but she knew that getting away from the others without arousing suspicion was only the first step. She still had to put some distance between them and her. Also, it would be a considerable while that she was still within sight of them, so breaking out into a run would give her game away. Besides, she fully intended to check upon the fish, though she never intended to bring them to the Cornucopia. Any fish caught in the nets today, same as the nets themselves, would be hers.

As such she simply kept on walking, occasionally even waving to her soon-to-be-ex-allies, looking for all the world like the obedient little tribute which was member of the big bad alliance.

* * *

 _Cassiopeia Jansen, D6, 15Y_

They hadn't done much that day, except for walking and getting to know each other a bit better. By unspoken decision, they had stayed clear of another ship, when it came into sight, not knowing whether someone else had already decided to call it home or not, but also because Cassiopeia knew that these ships could explode. At dusk, they had settled at the natural triangle which was formed by two of the streams meeting. The water would alert them of anyone approaching from either side, so they only had to watch the third.

The bird had been plucked and gutted and after a quick bath in the salty water had been roasting on a nice little fire. Not once since she had entered the arena had Cassiopeia felt so at peace.

She had thanked Mary profusely for this, but the other girl had just shrugged. "I wasn't dealing with the loneliness that well either. And since the scheme with Griffin fell through..."

"I'm only too happy to fill in," Cassiopeia had replied with a grin.

Now, two days later, they still had not parted ways. They had continued the pattern they had set the first day and were mostly moving around, never staying in one place for too long. "If you keep moving, you are less likely to get hit by an incoming train – supposing of course, you move the right direction," had been one of Angus' favourite quotes and Cassiopeia had no problems applying it to the arena as well. And since Mary was from a family which spent about as much time moving around the district as they spent staying in one place, she had no problems keeping up with Cassiopeia in this.

The hills once more beckoned to Mary and as Cassiopeia liked the thought of not being that visible, they had explored them quite thoroughly. It was on the fifth day however, near noon, when they came not only to the northern edge of the hills, but also upon a small upturned boat, which once might have been a sailing dinghy. Some part of the mast even remained, allowing the ship's body to form a nice shelter.

"What do you think; will this be rigged as well?" Mary asked.

Cassiopeia nodded. "They could have hidden the explosive in the railing or that mast stump. But I can see why it is so appealing to you. It would be nice to get out of the heat for a while and not only rely on a jacket-shelter. At the same time, even if this ship is rigged, what do you think are the chances of us being blown to bits?"

Mary shuddered at the very thought of it. After all, this was the gamemakers, they were speaking of; gamemakers, who were known to take tributes out on purpose to spice up the games.

"Yes," Cassiopeia agreed, "but if all the ships are rigged and the ships are bound to explode for certain reasons, they would run the risk of blowing up every single tribute. And then there's the fact that while the cannon signalled the death of a tribute before the two explosions, there was no cannon after the explosions."

"Maybe they only blew up ships which were not occupied by tributes." Mary offered.

"I don't think so. The first one, yes, because no tribute had yet a chance to get that far. The second though... If you were a gamemaker and had to pick a ship to blow up, would you rather choose a ship which was occupied and would have the audience be gripped with excitement, or would you blow up a ship nobody has even come near to?"

"That's not a hard decision, unfortunately: The occupied ship. But only if it wouldn't kill the tributes occupying that ship. Because otherwise the gamemakers would be seen as taking sides too early in the games."

"Exactly. Injure? Definitely. Kill? Not likely. Especially if they one day would have to blow up even the Cornucopia, home of the Careers. Killing a Career by accident this way would certainly upset a lot of people in the audience."

"So, going by this, this little boat here should be safe enough. Even if it blows up around us, there's probably not enough material to seriously hurt us, unless we end up with the mast punching a hole into us." Mary declared.

That settled, they even engaged in the luxury of setting up their camp properly, including grass beds. With Cassiopeia's sleeping bag and Mary's second jacket, they had managed without it the previous nights, but this was much better.

Now they were sitting under their boat, looking out into a terrain that was once more levelling out into a plain and relaxed. All at once Cassiopeia giggled and said: "I spy with my little eye something which is green." Angus used to play it with her when she was younger, not only to keep her occupied, but also to sharpen her awareness of her surroundings.

Mary scoffed. "Don't tell me it's the twentieth grass blade to the left from that large boulder over there..." And she pointed at the aforementioned boulder.

"Well, I don't know if it's the twentieth..." Cassiopeia giggled, before bursting out in a full laugh.

"Now, if we are going to play that game, we have to play it properly. Who is to say that this is a grass blade? Because, you see, it obviously is not." Mary said and the way the modulation of her voice changed, had Cassiopeia look at her with eager anticipation. "Well, my dear, as you should know; that subtle shade of green is just the go for home decoration of the season. Really, anyone with at least a modicum of fashion sense will have at least one planter of this at their home."

"Oh, you are of course right! Just think of it. And only the other day, I saw a lovely pair of heeled shoes with that particular grass pattern printed on them. Just imagine walking out in these, it will feel exactly as if we were in the arena ourselves." Cassiopeia replied. It had been easy to see that Mary was going for an imitation of her escort and she knew that Pancratius was game enough – and loved shoes – to even enjoy this little tease, should they make it onto the screens.

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean," Mary gushed. "Now, if only those rocks I spy with my little eye were a little more peach coloured, they would make a tunic pattern to die for."

"Now I spy with my little eye something which is pale yellow and dusty." Cassiopeia said.

"So you have seen the ads, too? It was such a lovely campaign. Salty sand, the perfect peeling agent to add that gamely glow to one's skin." Mary enthused.

"And it really gets everywhere. So thorough..." Cassiopeia added.

"I spy with my little eye something tangy." Mary offered.

"Oh, you mean that miracle nutrient that gives you just the kick you need to keep yourself hydrated, while ensuring that, if adhering to a strict diet of this and just a few proteins, you'll have that sexy look which others might attribute to the surgery industry?" Cassiopeia asked innocently.

It might be a bit macabre, it might make fun of their escorts and a lot of the Capitol's attitude, but it certainly kept them entertained, while they whiled away the hot afternoon hours. Both knew that at nightfall they would most likely be again on the move. Yes, they had a nice ship there, but the darkness would allow fears to enter and while the ship might not yield enough material to seriously harm them in an explosion, stumbling over debris in the dark would be just as effective in causing injuries. Besides, being almost constantly on the move had served them well so far in terms of not being caught by the Careers.

* * *

 _Marten Cooper, D1, 18Y_

The fire was cackling merrily and had been doing so for several minutes, yet there wasn't a sign of Rufa.

"What is keeping her?" Connor muttered, as always by now after an unsuccessful hunting trip more than a tad impatient. It didn't help that they couldn't see their preferred fishing spot from the Cornucopia as it was concealed by the first hill.

"Maybe someone found our fishing spot," Abelia offered, "so all our fish are gone and she's trying to catch a few with her spear."

"Or maybe she found a trail of that fish thief and has decided to track him or her down and not only get our fish back but also take care of that tribute," Marten suggested.

"Without calling for us as backup?" Connor scoffed.

"If the trail indicated a single tribute, she would be more than capable of tackling that problem on her own," Marten stated calmly.

"And if the trail leads to an unexpected group of tributes, she would retreat and come for us," Abelia added.

"Still, I don't like it. She must know that we are waiting for her. I'll go and see what's up," Connor declared.

The other two watched him go. Several minutes passed, then they could hear an angry howl from the direction of their favourite fishing spot.

Marten and Abelia exchanged glances.

"She did a runner," Marten stated the obvious, disbelief colouring his voice.

"And took our fish including the net," Abelia added. "Though honestly, can you blame her?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Can you tell me seriously that you haven't had a single thought about the fact that this alliance is rapidly approaching its end?" Abelia queried. "What about when Connor raised his weapon at us the other day, when we were discussing the explosions?"

Marten cringed at that particular memory. He slowly nodded. "Yes, but I had thought more along the lines of excluding Connor if it couldn't be avoided. Though I still had hoped, we could make it work till the Final Eight."

"The strength of the pack," Abelia agreed. "But if we excluded Connor, I think he would have sworn vengeance and gone on a rampage. He is dangerous and you know it."

Yes, he knew, but he also had been pretty confident that he could handle everything Connor could come up with. Rufa though had thought differently. And by breaking away first had the advantage that nobody knew which direction she had walked. "So... is this the end?" he asked Abelia. "Or do we only deal with Connor and the two of us stick together till the Final Eight or even the Feast?"

"The only way to make this work would have us kill Connor on the spot as soon as he returns as way of dealing with him," Abelia said bluntly. "Your call."

Marten knew Abelia was right, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Yes, he had already killed a supposed ally in cold blood. Killing Tourmaline however had been different. For all their ruthlessness and determination to win, there was something like honour among the alliance, yet by cheating her way into the games – for all the wrong reasons – he had known that Tourmaline had no honour. Connor though... Yes, he had raised his weapon at them, but he had not really made an attempt to kill them. He was still one of them, even if he was annoying them more and more with each passing day. Killing him on the spot when he came back would be like treason and Marten didn't know if he could live with himself if he went with this idea. He sighed. "We are over, I guess," he said with a heavy heart.

Abelia nodded and kicked the fire apart. They wouldn't need it anymore. She hoisted her backpack. "Will you wait for Connor, or will you simply leave him his pack and go? He should be back any minute now, unless he decided to pursue Rufa, so if we leave now, he should still see our vanishing figures, telling him enough..."

It scared Marten a bit how well Abelia could read him. Not a single word from her suggesting that they take advantage of Connor's absence and divide the goods in his backpack among the two of them. He wanted an honourable end for their alliance and she knew it. "I'll wait a bit, but if he's really gone after Rufa, I'll eventually go, too, and only leave the backpack behind," Marten said after contemplating the matter for a moment.

"No hunting each other till midnight?" Abelia then asked in a way of getting confirmation to the unspoken agreement that came with the tradition of this alliance.

"Make that dawn," Marten offered. "Though of course I can't give you any guarantees regarding Connor. He might have other ideas."

Abelia nodded, then, without a glance back, walked away.

Marten watched her making her way to the south, though he knew she would change the direction as soon as she was out of sight.

Half an hour passed, but Connor had not returned yet. Apparently Abelia was not only able to read him that well but also Connor. Well, Marten thought, Connor had do have known what pursuing Rufa on his own, without informing Abelia and him, had to mean.

He briefly considered hiding the backpack at least somewhat, but then decided against it. If on his eventual return, Connor would not see his pack immediately, he would most likely assume that one or both of his former allies had taken it. As such, he would just leave it where Connor had dropped it earlier. And if some other tribute took it between now and Connor's return, well, then Connor had only himself to blame for it.

With a last glance at the Cornucopia, Marten turned to the west. They had not explored that part of the arena any further than the ship where they had encountered the two nuisances and there hadn't been a stream on the north-western edge of the lake to tempt them thither on their recent explorations. The idea of the unknown appealed to him.

* * *

 _Griffin Doyle, D6, 18Y_

All had been quiet again in their little corner of the arena after the encounter with the boy tribute from District 3. It worried Griffin. The Hunger Games were not supposed to be a semi-idyllic retreat for the tributes, with only food and water to worry about. Not that food wasn't posing an almost constant problem. A week into the games even Maarck's insect friends seemed to avoid their ship in a wide perimeter. And while after the find of the nest Coralee had been able to also down two birds with her quarterstaff, neither bird had lasted long. Fish was also not part of their menu, because despite their many traps, the brook apparently held no fish at all. As such they had all been more than happy, when not one, but three sponsor gift bearing ships had come their direction the previous night. All three had been sent a loaf of bread by their mentors and Griffin had even received three apples. Never had apples tasted so delicious.

"I didn't know District Six was such a sponsor magnet," Coralee had teased good naturedly.

"I'm more surprised that Don went through all the troubles it surely took to get me enough sponsors for this bread," Maarck had said. He had told Griffin of his mentor's reaction upon learning about their alliance.

"Maybe it wasn't Don? Maybe it was Wendy and the money stemmed actually from people sponsoring Tracey?" Griffin offered with as serious a face as he could pull.

All three shared looks before laughing. Even if Tracey had attracted a few sponsors in the wake of her interview, in no way could it have been enough to buy bread on Day 6 in the arena.

"You might be correct though in that I can believe Wendy doing all the talking to the sponsors on my behalf, while Don monitors my well-being in the arena," Maarck said when they had calmed down again.

With his own mentors, Griffin was well aware that is was the escort who did all the leg work and then bullied the mentors into signing the deals and sending out the gifts. He was grateful that Pancratius was such a dedicated escort.

Food matters aside, Griffin though feared that unless they had some other tribute encounter soon, the gamemakers would soon step in. The explosion in the early morning yesterday had already sounded much closer than the previous two and not knowing what it was certainly didn't help get rid of the worries. As such, no matter what they did during the day, be it taking care of water or looking for food, he constantly scanned their surroundings. His two allies easily picked up on his uneasiness and emulated his constant vigilance. Not that they had ever been careless, but today it was as if something was crawling just beneath their skin, making them itch all over with unsettled anticipation.

Yet the day passed without any incident worth mentioning. It surprised neither Coralee nor Maarck, when Griffin at dusk suggested that they have two to a watch tonight, even if it meant taking double shifts and getting less sleep. Surprisingly, Maarck had opted for the first two shifts, while Coralee volunteered to have first and last watch.

Since his slumber had been rather restless, Griffin decided to relieve Coralee a little early. Venturing outside their ship, however, he could only see Maarck.

"Up already?" his friend asked.

"Couldn't really sleep. Rested my body a bit, but my mind refused to let go of things." Griffin shrugged. "Where is Coralee?"

"Just down by the brook, refilling our bottles." Maarck told him.

Griffin craned his neck, but couldn't detect the girl in the darkness, which instantly saw his worry increase. Even though the moon had already set, the stars provided enough light so he should at least be able to make out her silhouette. "I can't see her..."

"Well, you know, she also has to take care of a little something a bit downstream. And you know how she is..." Maarck said, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

Fortunately for him, Griffin immediately understood. He also knew that Coralee was a little touchy when it came to relieving herself and preferred cover of darkness and not being seen even by her two allies. It was a girls' thing he guessed. He just wished she would hurry about it.

Suddenly there was a big rustling and a scream, then another.

"Shit!" the two boys exclaimed, clearly recognizing the second voice as that of Coralee. Both were off in a sprint before the sounds faded into the night.

Within moments they arrived at the little bend Coralee usually frequented and found her moaning on the ground, while perhaps a hundred meters, maybe two, a tribute was hastily retreating, though definitely weighed down by dragging what could only be another tribute with them.

"After them!" Maarck shouted outraged. "We can take them down and make them pay!"

Griffin though had recognized the retreating tribute and knew in his heart that he couldn't go after her, even if she and the second tribute had just killed Coralee, as it was Mary. Then again, the cannon had not yet gone off. It was a split decision, but pulling out one of the stones, he now always carried with him, Griffin threw with true aim and hit the retreating girl at the back of her head. The stone had not been large enough to bring Mary down, but the yelp they could hear told him that it had still been painful. Turning to Maarck, he said: "Coralee is not yet dead. We both know first aid, but you'll agree that I'm better at throwing and keeping those tributes from escaping."

Not really giving Maarck a chance to reply Griffin ran after Mary, hoping Maarck would not follow him, but actually look after Coralee. He wasn't sure they could do anything for her, but he certainly didn't want a witness for his confrontation with Mary.

He had to admire her strength as she doggedly dragged the other tribute with her, despite the fact that she had to hear him closing in on them. For appearance sake, he threw a couple more stones, though carefully missing the two tributes.

"Wait!" he called softly, hoping the sound would not carry back to Maarck.

This time Mary dropped the other tribute and whirled around. Griffin stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the light spear in the girl's hand. Even in the darkness he could see that the sharp tip was darker than the rest of the spear. Sorrow flooded through him as he thought of Coralee. But this was the arena and he certainly couldn't fault Mary for defending herself. Or even protecting her ally, whom he now recognized as his own district partner.

"What do you want?" she asked, not at all happy to see him.

"I..." He faltered. "I just wanted to make sure you are okay." Griffin knew it sounded lame, but he really wanted that reassurance.

"Oh, that's rich," she scoffed. "If you are so interested in my well-being, why didn't you show up four days ago?"

He cringed slightly, but then shook his head. "Maarck and Coralee felt there was a good chance that you might be an undercover Career. Even though I didn't believe that, they made a pretty good case of it, and I didn't want to discard their opinions and trample all over them. They were already there, with me. And while I would have loved to keep our engagement, I feared it would disrupt the group's dynamics too much."

"Still, you could have come... if only to tell me the deal was off and why," Mary said, though while still sounding a bit accusing her voice no longer was full of scorn.

"Maybe... Risk aside – and it would have been risky so close to the Cornucopia, whereas I was pretty safe here – it would have been too painful. The mere thought of seeing you, talking to you and then walking away from you..." Griffin was surprised at him being so open with her, but later figured that the arena had a way of making one realize that one had better say things before the either of them died. That, and the fact that the darkness of the night seemed to lend him some cover, comfort and courage.

His words elicited a small chuckle from her. "And what do you think we are doing right now?"

"I know, I know," he said with a grin. "But fate apparently wanted to meet us. And who am I to scorn fate?"

Just then a cannon sounded, signalling Coralee's end.

"I'm sorry," Mary said softly. "Cassiopeia literally stumbled over her. Your ally though still possessed the presence of mind to swing her staff, knocking Cassiopeia unconscious. That's when I..."

Her words were drowned by the sound of another explosion echoing through the arena. Again it sounded farther away, more like the first two explosions, but still Griffin had a feeling that these couldn't mean anything good. And not knowing what it was, was slowly getting at him.

Seeing his obvious unsettledness over the explosion, Mary said: "It's the ships. They explode after certain deaths. Cassiopeia found out before we met, and just this morning we found the ship they blew up yesterday." She gestured in the direction the remnants of the ship could be found.

That matter solved, Griffin now faced another problem. With Coralee dead, Maarck would most likely be on his way to join them. Thinking on his feet, he said to Mary: "Raise your spear and swing it similar to the move Coralee used on Cassiopeia. I'll drop down, pretending to be unconscious. This should allow you to escape with her."

Looking him in the eyes, Mary nodded. "Till next time," she whispered as she swung her spear against his head.

* * *

 _District Seven - Fenny Larson_

A group of peacekeepers marched down the street as Fenny hurried to school. The sight was filling her with dread, yet she forced herself to watch them and not cringe or hide. It was difficult, going against a habit that was so much part of the wood cutter community. The little girl was only now beginning to realize that because of the sharp tools they wielded the wood cutters were kept under close scrutiny and she guessed that maybe someone or other among their community might think of using the tools as weapons, thus warranting the scrutiny. But she recalled Coralee's words that the peacekeepers were actually there to protect her and that as long as she didn't do anything that was against the law, all would be well. And she hadn't done anything wrong. Besides, if Coralee could be so brave as to face all those other tributes in the Hunger Games arena, then she could be brave enough to face the Peacekeepers.

The group's leader saw her standing at the side of the street, watching them.

Fenny almost cowered with fear when he began walking over to where she stood. But then she recognized him as the one with whom Coralee had spoken on the day of the Reaping.

"I'm sorry little one," he said kindly. "She was a tough one..."

She had early duties at school this morning, so hadn't had a chance to catch up on the games with the other kids at the orphanage over breakfast, but this was definitely not how Fenny had ever envisioned learning about Coralee's death. She had simply clung to the hope that Coralee would come back, that she would win. But the obvious respect the peacekeeper held for Coralee when giving her the sad news made Fenny feel warm inside at the same time, allowing her to push aside the onslaught of grief and feel proud. Proud to have known Coralee, proud to be singled out as someone special by someone most of the district feared, to be told these precious words with warmth and sympathy. And she resolved at that moment that she, too, wanted to earn that kind of respect from the peacekeepers. Though just by standing there, now unafraid, she had already done a giant step towards achieving that goal.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3

Tybor Rejewski, D3 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Haden Steinmetz, D9 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Alicia Quinn, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Coralee Lume, D7 – killed by Madeline Parker, D11


	34. Chapter 31 - Arena: Ten

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 31: The arena – Ten**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

The end of the Big Alliance this early in the games had been something only the die-hard betters would have put any money on. But then, these people placed a bet on almost everything in an attempt to come out even in the end. Still, the fact that the traditional alliance had been the first to officially break apart of their own free will had kept the Capitol busy talking the events over. Even now, two days after the occurrence, it was the main Hunger Games related topic in the cafés and restaurants, with frequent mention also in Caesar's show.

Claudius had been delighted with the break-up. Like the rest of the audience, he, too, had noticed the growing tension among the allies and by experience knew there could be only two possible outcomes: the death of the tribute responsible for the tension or the break-up. And while the death of a tribute by the hands of his own allies would always provide just the action the audience loved, it was only a one-time entertainment. As such Claudius definitely preferred the break-up as now they could follow four individual tributes instead of just one group, which meant more coverage material for his summaries and more camera switches during live-feed sessions.

Another aspect Claudius liked about the break-up of the alliance was that now the mentors would most likely begin to send sponsor gifts. Either out of necessity or because now their tributes no longer were obliged to share with their allies. And Claudius was curious to see what these sponsor gifts would be.

The brief encounter between the girl tribute of District 11 and the boy tribute of District 6 had also been mentioned, but Claudius didn't emphasize on them. Yes, they were interesting, but that was mainly due to a certain mystery which shrouded their interactions. And no mystery could keep its charm when being talked to death. Brief glimpses on the screen to remind the audience of the existence of the mystery, but nothing more. They had, as directors, to tell a story after all.

* * *

 _Abelia Shale, D2, 18Y_

It felt liberating to be on her own. Yes, she had liked being part of the alliance as it had ensured supplies and strength of numbers. But especially when it came to supplies, Abelia had more than once felt that her allies were wasting them. While none had objected the plants and fish, most had preferred to supplement their meals also with some of the dried fruit and nuts, which had been among the initial provisions, instead of keeping them as easy to carry rations for their later explorations. She smiled at the thought of all the food she had currently stored in her backpack. Whenever the others had decided to have some, she had simply accepted her share, but secretly put them away for later, while helping herself to some more of the fresh greens. Abelia reckoned that she could survive on this stash alone for another two or three days.

Not that she intended to do that. She knew her plants after all and the arena still held plenty of it. She also had no intention of roughing it when it came to finding a shelter. As soon as she had been out of sight of the Cornucopia, she had veered west. In that direction, no more than a couple of hours away, was the ship of the two annoying boys. It was easily defendable, as they had learned, offered options for emergency exits if needed, and, best of all, by her reckoning was currently unoccupied. Also, as far as she knew, there was now no group out there which was large enough to surround the ship properly and block her eventual emergency exit, so to her it was as perfect as could be.

All too soon however, she began to feel really tired. They had been up since midnight, following a stream to the south till after dawn, then had tracked back. The short time spent at the Cornucopia did not really count as rest, but Abelia also had not wanted to linger after the end of the alliance. She had no desire to be confronted by an irrational Connor. The afternoon sun however was unrelenting and way sooner than she liked she was forced to seek the shadows of some improvised shelter by stretching her jacket over some bushes. She was really glad that the boy tribute from District 9 had been similar enough in size to allow her to replace her lost one. In the mean-time she had to have make do with a poncho she had fashioned out of a light blanket, but its red colour made it unsuitable as awning during the day. Maybe with the jacket now in her possession, she could try and dust-dye the blanket to make it work as an awning...

As soon as the sun was touching the horizon, Abelia was on her way again. She was anxious to reach the ship lest someone else of the group had the same idea. She also needed to reach the brook that had flowed on the far side of the ship, as her water bottle by now was empty.

Luckily, after another hour's walk, the ship came into view and as she drew nearer, Abelia was delighted to see no signs of another tribute. She spent the rest of the evening fortifying the ship again, then settled for the night in a corner of the deck which was sheltered from the light breeze which had picked up. Helping herself to some of the fruit and nuts, she waited for the anthem.

As far as she could tell, it was still half an hour until midnight, when a cannon echoed through the arena, closely followed by the sounds of another explosion. This one sounded a lot closer than the previous ones, but it was difficult to tell in this arena, where sound carried far. If their theory had been correct, the cannon had meant neither Rufa's nor Connor's death, and Abelia definitely hoped it had not been Marten, who had met his end just now.

Relief flooded her, when not long after that – though longer than she had liked to wait – the anthem began and the picture of the girl from District 7 was shown. She, too, at least fit the theory, whatever it was that had exploded.

The next day, Abelia began to work on some fish traps, but she also started on rendering the blanket less red. Her first idea to wet it in order to make the dust cling to it she discarded. The salt in the brook's water and the sun exposure would render the textile brittle much quicker than she liked and she didn't exactly have enough drinkable water to waste it on this. While it was true that the piston bottle she had, gave her access to drinkable water in an instant, the whole thing seemed not to have been designed for durability. Already, given how often she had worked the piston for drinking water, the membrane seemed to weaken, as Abelia thought she could by now detect the slightest hint of salt in the water. The ion drift bottle she also had seemed to cope better with the constant use, but yielded too little water to use for experimenting. Instead she tried trampling on the blanket while it lay in the dust to work it into the fabric. It worked to a certain degree, but was still not satisfactory.

"Are you participating in some long forgotten ritualistic dance, where one has to sacrifice a blanket?" a bemused voice asked from behind her.

Abelia cursed inwardly as she slowly turned around, recognizing the voice as Marten's. How could she have been so stupid? Most of her knives were in her backpack, which was just inside the ship, and while she carried another knife in her belt, she doubted she'd stand a chance against Marten and his sword with it. But she had become so used to having allies watch her back, that she had allowed the other tribute to sneak up on her. Or had she heard his approaching footsteps and recognized him by them, only to fail to realize that these footsteps now belonged to an enemy? Whatever the case, she deserved whichever fate awaited her for her stupidity. Not that she would go down without a fight. Her hand went for her knife.

"Whoa, easy," Marten said, and while his hand, too, rested on his weapon, he wasn't pointing the sword in her direction. Seeing her confusion, he added: "I would like half of the Final Eight to be us, and while I think it's unrealistic to hope we all also make it to the Feast, again I would like half of the tributes to be us. So killing you now would not serve that goal at all."

"Why?" Abelia asked cautiously. "Why not take out one of the more dangerous competitors now? Or whenever you get the chance?"

The grin he sported was downright devious. "It's called 'Know thy enemy'. Make no mistake, you may be dangerous, even potentially more dangerous than other tributes, but no one, who makes it to the Final Eight or the Feast, should be classed harmless. And with my former allies at least I have an idea of their modus operandi."

Abelia could hardly fault that logic, especially if it meant he wasn't going to kill her – yet.

"So, are you going to make an attempt at killing me now or will you agree to a truce until the Feast?" he asked.

"How could I not agree to the truce?" Abelia countered. "You had me out cold right now, and repaying you for sparing me by going after you wouldn't be right. Not to mention that your sword has a longer range than my knife and you would hardly stand still..." The blanket at her feet however reminded her that if need be she could always use it as distraction. Tossing it at him – and hopefully hitting his face – might actually see her triumph. Still, she preferred to let this plan go untested for now.

"Okay, so truce it is." Marten nodded. Looking at the ship he then asked: "Do you intend to stay here?"

Abelia was unsure how to answer that. Now that he knew where to find her, it seemed prudent to move on, should he eventually renege on the truce. On the other hand, Marten was not the kind of guy to break a truce he himself had suggested. So by virtue of that very truce, the ship might still be her safest option.

She was spared an answer when Marten continued. "You might want to reconsider. The explosions? It's the ships being blown up. The one last night was actually close enough for me to get an idea of the direction in which it occurred. I found the remains at dawn."

The shelter offering ships being blown up actually sent shivers down Abelia's back. So much for a perfect hide-out. "Thanks for the warning," she said, her mind already trying to formulate a new plan.

"You are welcome. See you at the Feast." With that, Marten walked away.

* * *

 _Maarck Wijngaard, D10, 17Y_

Holding Coralee while she was dying had been one of the worst things Maarck had ever experienced. Though he had tried to stop the bleeding of the wound in her abdomen, he had soon realized that the internal damage was too severe for him to successfully ward off death.

He had felt so utterly useless, yet hadn't wanted to abandon her and have her die alone. The weak smile she had given him had told him more than any words how much she had appreciated it. Same had gone for his attempt to protect her dignity as he had righted her clothes when it had become apparent that she was beyond help. Nobody should die, much less be lifted from the arena, with one's trousers at the ankles.

As the cannon sounded, he had stood up, looking for Griffin, just in time to see his friend receive a blow that sent him to the ground. Luckily his opponent was much more interested in escaping with her own ally than to also kill Griffin.

By the time he reached his friend, Griffin was thankfully already regaining consciousness.

"What a little hellcat," he groaned as he allowed Maarck to help him back to their ship.

Neither of them got much sleep that night. By dawn, both were up and discussing their situation. It felt so different without Coralee.

"I think we should move," Griffin said.

"Why?" Maarck wanted to know. He had noticed Griffin looking around, clearly uneasy with his surroundings. "Your plan about having a fort and keeping the perimeter clear is a good one. It is only because Coralee decided to leave our sight that she got caught."

"No, no, it's not because of what happened to Coralee." Griffin shook his head. "Not really. Yes, the ship and everything will constantly remind me of her, but so will using her water bottle – and I fully intend to use it. It's the food situation. We have exhausted the edible insect option around here and the brook has no fish. We can't really rely on sponsors to keep us alive..."

"So, what you mean is, we go and search for another ship, one with a stream that preferably has fish?" Maarck asked, already seeing the merit of Griffin's arguments.

"Exactly," Griffin replied.

"But won't all the good ships be already taken?"

"I don't think so. Of course we don't know how many ships there are, but right now there are only ten tributes left. Of these ten we know of two pairs and the Careers usually don't break up until the Final Eight. So we have perhaps five factions out there. The Careers will hold the Cornucopia, leaving four factions to vie for the remaining ships. I think chances are pretty good that we can find a suitable new ship," Griffin explained. "But even if we don't get lucky where the ship is concerned, finding a stream with fish would be enough for me right now. I'm sure, between the two of us, we would manage to build some shelter wherever we chose."

Maarck had difficulties refuting this. "Well, in this case, we should make most of the morning before the sun is too high in the sky."

They gathered their belongings and by unspoken agreement turned northwards. Both remembered having spotted a watercourse there the first day with only the ship visible in the distance influencing them to choose the southern one.

The sun was already well up on its path across the sky when they reached the other stream, but both boys were delighted to see fish swimming in it.

"Let's get the traps set up," Maarck proposed. "We won't be going much farther right now anyway, it's getting too hot. So we might as well see if we can't lure some of those fish into becoming our dinner."

Although it had made their bundles a bit bulky, Maarck had been right in insisting they take their traps with them. Now he could just lower them into the water without having to waste time and energy to fashion new ones.

Meanwhile, Griffin had used their pipe staffs, some rocks and the thin blanket that had been in one of the backpacks to create a makeshift shelter. Since seeing for himself, how effective a weapon the staff could be during their encounter with the boy from District 3, Griffin had taken to usually carrying a metal pipe staff with him as well. Not wanting to be the only one without one, Maarck had adopted the fashion, too, and though he had yet to use it as weapon, he could already attest to its usefulness as walking-staff. Seeing it now also being used to prop up the blanket as shelter, once more convinced him that one should never be without a quarterstaff in the arena.

Sitting down on the warm ground, Maarck soon felt a little drowsy, though his mind was too full of thoughts to actually allow him to sleep. Griffin though seemed to have no such problems, as he was soon napping.

Maarck smiled at the sight. It was strange. Griffin had been almost anxious to get away from their ship, but now out here, in the open, with the red blanket alerting anyone within a ten kilometre radius of their position, he was at rest enough to slumber peacefully. Maarck wished he could do the same.

He missed Coralee, apparently more than Griffin did. It felt strange and seemed a bit unfair towards Griffin, but it was as if Coralee had only ever been an ally to Griffin, never a friend. By contrast, Griffin seemed to regard him more as a friend, whereas Maarck had considered both as friends. But even there, Maarck had felt that Coralee and he had been equals, which somehow was not the case with Griffin and him. Griffin was the one with the plan they had all adopted. In this he was also the leader of their group, though he didn't lord it over them. On the contrary, he listened to their opinions and when they had voiced their doubts about Mary had accepted them. Maarck though wondered if Griffin would have also heeded these arguments had it only been Coralee who voiced them, while he only secretly agreed with her but outwardly claimed a neutral position.

Mary, he reflected, was in many ways more Griffin's equal than he was. Like Griffin she had killed when necessary. Like Griffin, she had cared about her ally. She was the strong one.

Maarck was honest enough to acknowledge that he had no idea if on his own, without Griffin and Coralee, he would have made it that far. And while he seriously disliked this feeling of inferiority, there was nothing he could do about it. He doubted he would suddenly discover he had the ultimate killer instinct...

"You think too much," a voice next to him said.

Startled, Maarck looked over to where Griffin sat, now wide awake again.

"You had it written all over your face that you were trying to make sense of the situation and what your part should be," Griffin explained at his questioning look.

It was not exactly what he had been mulling over in his head, but close enough to give him a mild shock.

"As I said: You think too much. While it's good to have a plan, trust yourself to also do what is necessary in any given situation." Griffin said and got up. Stretching, he went down to the brook. He looked at the traps, then turned to Maarkc with a wide grin. "Looks like we are in for a really good dinner!"

Several fish had been trapped and, much to his own surprise, Maarck had not the slightest problem killing and gutting them. Maybe it was because he was really hungry and knew the fish meant food. Maybe it was because he was used to handling slimy creatures and compared to the snails fish was not too different to the touch. In the meantime Griffin had gathered enough wood and grass to build a small cooking fire.

Soon the delicious smell of roasting fish teased them. In the end the skin was rather charred, but as Maarck had also forgotten to scale the fish – he had not known about it – they simply discarded the skin and enjoyed the flaky meat.

"The brook is definitely a keeper," Griffin said, once both were satiated for now.

Maarck nodded. "All we now need is a better shelter."

"Well, in this direction," Griffin pointed to the west, "is the Cornucopia. So how about we follow the brook upstream tonight and see what we can find?"

"Sounds good."

Dusk was not too far away and by the time the sun kissed the horizon, they had rearranged their packs, including the traps. It was of no use to leave them here if they decided on a different campsite and had then to return to retrieve them, no matter how good a fishing spot it was.

Neither spoke much as they walked. It was already nearing midnight, when a strangely shaped hill came in sight ahead of them.

"What do you think this is?" Maarck asked.

"I don't know. But it's definitely not the ship we had been hoping to find," Griffin replied. "What do you think, should we get closer or set up camp here, catch a bit of sleep and investigate it tomorrow at first light?"

"First light," Maarck decided. This hill looked foreboding and he didn't fancy stumbling over some danger in the dark.

He felt all the more justified for this decision in the morning, when the grey light of dawn showed a huge pile of scrap metal with bits and pieces strewn around it. "Oh my god, is this... was this a ship?" He asked, awed.

"Looks like it," Griffin said and though he, too, looked at the heap in amazement, he sounded strangely calm.

"How can you be so calm about it?" Maarck asked, accusation creeping into his voice. "The explosions... It could have been our ship!"

"Yes, it could have been our ship, but it wasn't. However, now we know what the explosions were about. And best of all, we can avoid being caught in one."

"True," Maarck conceded. "But what do we do about a shelter, now that ships are obviously out?"

Griffin shrugged. "We build one. There's more than enough material available." He gestured at the scrap metal. "I don't think it could explode a second time, so why not use it? Not here though," he added.

"Why not? As you said, it already exploded is unlikely do to so a second time."

"Yes, but it was the gamemakers' doing. Usually they only mess with the arena to keep tributes from straying too far away from the rest. As such, the destroyed ship is a clear signal to turn around and head back, or else..."

"Else?"

"It's the gamemakers we are talking about. They could open the ground under us, should we defy them, send a fire or sandstorm in our direction, or attack us with muttations."

"Right," Maarck said, slightly embarrassed to have forgotten about all the other options of interference the gamemakers would have built into the arena. "Not to mention the idea of drying up that stream to get us moving again."

"I think the site where we camped yesterday should work," Griffin suggested. "It's not too far from the Cornucopia, and while not easy, would be within a manageable distance to allow us to drag shelter building material there."

Maarck sighed at the prospect of lugging metal parts through the arena for several hours. Well, they didn't want to build a palace. A few pipes and one or two sheets of metal, depending on the size, should suffice to build a more permanent version of the blanket shelter Griffin had fashioned the previous day. They could then also layer some grass on it to camouflage it... "Okay, let's do it."

* * *

 _Connor Tobin, D4, 18Y_

Where was that bitch? When he had reached their fishing spot, as predicted, the net and fish were gone. So was Rufa. But Connor could only find tracks belonging to one person, and these, too, only in the immediate vicinity of the fishing spot. There was no trace of any other thieving tribute; the only fish thief was Rufa.

An angry howl escaped his throat as he instantly resolved to follow her and bring her down. Nobody did such a thing to him! Nobody betrayed him like this!

But Rufa was clever. She had obviously chosen to walk some distance in the stream to hide her tracks. But that wouldn't help her. There was only one obvious route she could have taken and that was upstream. Downstream was only the lake and she would have been out in the wide open then. So all he had to do was follow the watercourse upstream a,d watch for her wet tracks to appear on either bank.

Half an hour later he was still following the stream, but ahead he could see another brook joining this one. And no matter how much he'd like to be able to, he couldn't divide himself in two. But had Rufa really waded through the stream for so long? Connor didn't think he had missed the spot, where she had exited the stream, more like it wasn't there.

It now also dawned upon him that in his reckless pursuit he had never spared one thought for Marten and Abelia. Would they now think he had done a runner like Rufa? Did they perhaps even think that Rufa and he had planned this and were now striking out as allied pair? No, after spending a week together in the arena, they must know that he was, like them, more an individualistic tribute and his district partner no more than an ally. That, like Abelia, he would not have felt devastated at his district partner's death had it been Rufa instead of Marinus who had been killed that night. Besides, had they planned it, he would not have left without his backpack. So Abelia and Marten would know he was merely searching for their traitorous ally.

Pictures of a triumphant return, the net full of fish in one hand, Rufa's backpack slung over his shoulder, the telltale cannon preceding him, filled his mind. Marten had dealt with Tourmaline, he would deal with Rufa. No, he only had to find her. Even in the unlikely event that he had missed the point where she had exited the stream, Connor felt she still had to be around somewhere here. The hilly terrain offered the best concealment where distance was not an option and he was confident that she had not had enough of a lead to put significant distance between him and her.

The afternoon wore on, but still he had been unable to find the least sign of her. Anger and frustration warred inside him. To make matters worse, he was getting quite thirsty and his water bottle, like the rest of his things with the exception of his ever present spear, was back at the Cornucopia. But returning empty-handed was not an option in his opinion, so he pressed on.

Night fell, but Connor was still not willing to give up. Maybe, he thought, Rufa had hid somewhere, to wait out the heat, but would now emerge. And if he now climbed the tallest hill, he should be able to make her out, even in the darkness.

A cannon sounded, followed by another explosion. The anthem came next, along with the picture of the girl from District 7. Midnight. It was only now that Connor realized that he had been searching almost twelve hours for Rufa. That it also had been almost twelve hours, since he had last had something to drink. He had to return to his allies at the Cornucopia and admit defeat.

However, when he finally reached the base camp, he found it deserted. No Marten, no Abelia. They had not even had the courtesy to leave him his backpack. Rage filled his body as he swore vengeance.

He had known that they had not seen eye to eye in quite a lot of things lately, and now it looked as if his former allies had planned all this to get rid of him. The disappearance of Rufa had been nothing more than a scheme to send him on a wild goose chase. He could just see it: how his district partner had actually waited at the back of the Cornucopia to rejoin the other two as soon as he was out of sight. Laughing, as they devided his things among them and then moved off to somewhere else.

A small voice reminded him that they could also have killed him to get rid of him, but he ruthlessly squashed that voice. Without a water bottle he was as good as dead. So no honour there.

Dawn was not far away and Connor knew that he probably wouldn't survive the next day unless he behaved like a sitting duck and simply kept to the Cornucopia. It might prevent him from getting a fatal heat stroke, though it would do nothing about his general situation. And he sure hated sitting around, waiting for the inevitable. Better go out fighting than that.

Just then, he found a small ship floating through the sky towards him. A sponsor gift! Apparently Mags had only waited for him to be stationary long enough to send him one. Elated, he plucked the ship from the air as soon as it was close enough, and opened it. Inside he found a most precious bottle of water, but also a single pill. He instantly recognized it. It was a headache pill. And now that he saw it, he also realized that he indeed sported a rather severe headache. It was not the fancy Capitol stuff but the kind of pill sold in the districts, yet Connor understood that with also having to send him water, it was at this point in the games a rather expensive gift. Especially as his mentor also had to take into consideration that she might have to send him more water... Connor wondered how long Mags could keep him alive this way. Certainly not long enough should he be unable to find a replacement for the lost water bottle.

Swallowing the pill and gulping down half the water immediately, he waited for his head to clear a bit, before he began making plans. Forget Rufa. Forget Marten and Abelia. Should he find them, sure, they were dead. But else, any tribute would do. Anyone who was still alive now must be in possession of a water bottle, which Connor intended to secure for himself.

He knew he had two options: He could either follow one of the watercourses and see if he found some tributes hiding in a ship or at least near the water, or he could continue searching the hills.

Since the alliance had worked with the watercourse plan and had had pretty little success, he felt his chances were better in the hills. These offered some natural concealment compared to the plains, so might attract some tributes. This time though, he would have to be more foresighted than his previous ramble through that terrain. He would seek out the highest hill right at the beginning and get to know the area. He would also have to find some shelter in that part of the arena as he couldn't spend another day out in the sun without facing severe consequences. Speaking of which, just looking at the rising sun told him, that however good this plan was, it would have to wait. If he walked out right now in quest of the highest hill he would find himself in exactly the same situation as the day before, as he would most likely only reach it near noon. And given the arena and his recent luck, any shelter would then be at least another two hours away. Besides, a nap might actually help combating his heat exhaustion. He didn't like the thought of sleeping without having someone watching his back, but it couldn't be helped. At least this was the Cornucopia, a ship he well knew. He could easily find a corner where a passing tribute, or even one giving this place a cursory investigation, would overlook. Drinking the remaining water, he then settled down in the depth of the ship.

His sleep was actually much deeper than he had expected as he found himself only waking up as the sun set again. Feeling quite refreshed though, he strode out with renewed vigour. He would scout the area, would locate some tributes and get himself a water bottle. He was again getting thirsty and also hungry, but that would have to wait.

Midnight came as he scaled the highest hill he could find, but aside of the anthem the sky had nothing to report. The view of the range of hills however gave a lot more information. From where he stood, Connor could clearly make out at least four brooks, though they seemed to merge into two the nearer they got to the lake. And just on the far side of it to the north-east, where the hills almost ended again in open plains, he thought he detected a small ship. It was, as expected, still a good distance away, but was actually a lot closer than the Cornucopia. It would do as new base camp for him.

* * *

 _Madeline Parker, D11, 18Y_

Maddy hoped Cassiopeia would regain her consciousness soon. While light, as dead weight the younger girl was still rather heavy when being dragged through the arena. It was hard work and had her focus on each single step rather than mapping out a path to follow. All she knew was she had to get away from that ship, Griffin and the dead girl.

The meandering brook eventually found them again, and Maddy thought it was as good a path as any to follow. Besides, wiping Cassiopeia's face now and again with her wet shirt might revive the girl.

It was however not until the anthem played that Cassiopeia woke with a groan and judging by the way she was holding her head, sported a monster headache. Maddy offered her a drink of water, but Cassiopeia almost immediately threw up the whole of it. Maddy sighed inwardly as she realized that her ally had in all likelihood a concussion. She had already feared as much, but had still hoped to err. She knew she should get Cassiopeia to rest, but that was not possible. While Griffin might have bought them some precious minutes with his acting, his ally might well decide to pursue them nevertheless.

"I know it hurts, but can you try to get up? I'll help you, but we really have to keep moving."

To her relief, Cassiopeia nodded weakly and actually got up.

They continued following the brook, as it allowed them to keep cooling Cassiopeia, which was the only relief they had for her aching head. So focussed was she on helping her injured ally that Maddy noticed too late where they were actually heading: the Cornucopia. The ship was already looming ahead in the distance.

But it was strange. If she could see the Careers' ship this close, any guarding Career should have seen the two of them long ago. And after her raid during the first night, Maddy doubted the Careers would ever allow another tribute to get this close to their territory. Yes, they might be two and the guard alone, but from the way Cassiopeia and she were moving, it would have been obvious to the guard that he or she clearly had the advantage. But as nobody was charging at them, could it actually be that the Cornucopia was empty? Abandoned by the Careers? If that was the case, the two of them might actually use it as shelter for the night.

Of course Maddy knew the dangers of using a ship for shelter, but this was the Cornucopia. It was the perceived centre of the arena; surely the gamemakers would blow that ship up last. The Cornucopia also meant that most other tributes would steer clear of it, expecting it to be held by the Careers. It might actually be safest place in the arena right now.

Filled with hope, Maddy steered Cassiopeia towards the ship. Only to stop dead in her tracks a few meters from its main opening. There, leaning right against the wall, stood a lone backpack. And judging by the size and shape, it was a well filled backpack. But backpacks usually had owners. Where was this one's owner?

Waiting for several seconds with baited breath, Maddy felt elation coursing through her body, when nothing happened. For whatever reason, this backpack apparently had no current owner. No, that was not right. That backpack now had a new owner! In the very least, it should contain another water bottle, helping her to keep Cassiopeia hydrated. Even if the poor girl vomited most of it, she had to try to get as much water as possible into her.

Unfortunately however the backpack also meant that using the Cornucopia for shelter was out. The former owner of the backpack might actually return. And even though Maddy had killed that night, she didn't fancy a repeat of it.

"Wait here," she told an obedient Cassiopeia, quickly dashed to the ship, picked up the pack and returned to the girl. Pausing a moment to choose a direction, she decided to backtrack a bit, as she remembered having seen another stream meet the one they'd been following at a distance. If they followed the other one now, it should see them far away enough both from Griffin and his ally as well as the pack's former owner.

Cassiopeia followed her lead silently, except for an ever present moan and Maddy really felt sorry that she could not grant the girl the rest she required, but any rest which saw them fall victim to another tribute's weapons was not worth it. As such she coaxed and encouraged Cassiopeia to take another step and then another and then just another.

Somehow they made it this way till dawn, at which point Maddy judged that they had walked far enough. They were still in the open, but that couldn't be helped. It was actually time to examine their new backpack.

It was a real treasure trove. Just judging by the contents, Maddy knew that it had to be a Careers' pack. A carefully packed, prepared for everything Career backpack... There was not only a piston water bottle but also another compartmentalized one. There was a sleeping bag. There was even a pack of jerky. But the most important were perhaps the knife and the small first aid kit. Sifting through the first aid kit had Maddy squeal with relief as she found two antiemetic pills. Without hesitation, she forced Cassiopeia to swallow one, hoping it would settle her stomach enough to this time keep the water down that followed the pill. Then, arranging their now two sleeping bags as best she could and using their jackets and her remaining spear to fashion a little awning to protect them from the steadily rising sun, she allowed the two of them some much needed rest.

Giving one last glance at her surroundings, she even thought they might stay here for a while, and give Cassiopeia a chance to battle the symptoms of her concussion with rest, rest, and more rest. If no other tribute found them, of course.

The younger girl was indeed fast asleep within minutes of crawling into her sleeping bag. Maddy however, despite her exhaustion, found that sleep was eluding her. Now that she was not focussing on moving, her mind returned to the encounter with Griffin. It had really been strange. Maddy knew that he could have easily killed both her and Cassiopeia. They were nowhere near fast enough to escape him, and a well placed swing with his dying ally's staff would have brought her down. Yes, she might have heard him coming and prepared for a fight, but she had only one spear left and all he would have had to do was dodge it. She then might have opted to run away, abandoning Cassiopeia. She knew her survival instinct might have actually had her do this. But nothing like that had occurred. He had not even taken his ally's weapon with him as he ran after them. Instead he had thrown a stone at them from quite a distance to alert her well ahead of their actual encounter. Yes, it had been a couple of stones, but only the first one had hit. The others, she guessed, had deliberately missed them. He had pursued them solely to talk to her. She could see that his interest in her welfare was genuine, though she had still felt justified in her initial anger. Soon however she had understood his actions or rather inactions where their appointed meeting was concerned. But why then, if he had given up on her on the third day, care for her now?

Her own reactions were less of a miracle to her. She knew that she could not kill him, that she couldn't even bring herself to attempt it. She had probably known ever since she got her first real glance of him in the training centre. Could it be that he was held back from killing her by something similar? The look they had exchanged as she prepared to swing her spear against his temple, certainly suggested it.

* * *

 _Evan Harris, D5, 16Y_

It definitely felt like a miracle to Evan when they finally reached the hills on the evening of Day 7 without encountering anyone. Yes, it was a large arena, but with having to avoid the ships, he felt far too vulnerable out in the plains. Anyone who happened to look in their directions would see them from miles away, and they had already been found once by the Careers. That was why he had constantly pushed Chalen and himself to the limit, allowing them only a few hours of sleep at night, and little rest during the day when the heat made it unavoidable.

Now though, as they made it past the very first hill, he felt they could catch up on some much needed sleep. Of course sleep was hard to come by with another ship's explosion reawakening the trauma of having actually lived through such an explosion. Chalen was trembling with fear beside him under their Mylar blanket and he himself was only keeping calm by concentrating on his every breath. Exhaustion however eventually saw their bodies claim the rest they needed.

The next day, rested, but hungry, was spent gathering plants and trying to catch some fish. Not that they were lucky with the latter, but at least the plants staved off the worst of the hunger. Evan even found he had the energy to try and build a half way decent shelter. Together with Chalen's weaving abilities and his own recently gained knowledge during training about suitable shelters they managed something he was actually proud of. They would still get wet should it suddenly rain, but that was not a weather change he counted upon. Especially with rain being collectable drinking water, Evan could rather see the gamemakers ensuring that any rain cloud would be driven in some other direction long before it had a chance to reach the arena.

The ninth day of the games however saw everything change. As per the routine they had established back when they had been using the ship as shelter, they had gotten up early to get some food and water before the heat of the day drove them back to their shelter. They intended to use the hot hours to work on camouflaging their shelter. They hoped, given a few more days, that it would look like a natural little hill next to the large one it was nestled to, while instead being a man-made little cave.

Evan was down by the brook to fill their water bottles, while Chalen was steadily making her way up a hill, gathering plants, when suddenly a large figure crested the hill from the other side and lunged forward at Chalen.

A shrill scream pierced the air. Evan immediately abandoned the bottles and rushed up the hill to where Chalen was being attacked by a Career. Looking around for a weapon, all he could find was a large, sharp rock. Without hesitation, he picked up the rock as it was better than having not weapon at all.

Chalen was trying to evade the large boy and the equally large spear he carried, but he stabbed at her, pushing her backwards, sidewards, anywhere, following all her movements with his weapon. He seemed to be everywhere, blocking her every escape route.

Evan was half way up the hill when he saw Chalen loose her footing on the slanting ground, tumbling down. With a mighty roar, the Career was above her, driving his spear home. Utter terror filled Evan, freezing him on the spot

Seeing the large boy rip the spear out of the fallen body of his ally and plunge it right back, however snapped him out of his shock. Without any further thought, he charged the maniacal tribute, rock in hand, as he smashed it into the head of the other boy from behind. Like he had done with Chalen, Evan now brought his weapon down on the tribute over and over again. Blood coated the rock, blood pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds... the cannon announcing Chalen's death, the explosion of another ship far away, the groans of the startled tribute... His blind rage gave Evan the extra strength which saw him overpower the Career.

With one final effort, the other boy however was able to eventually throw off Evan, sending him sprawling on the grown. Frantically Evan tried to scramble away, out of the reach of that ugly spear, when to his amazement, he saw the Career drop on his knees and then fall forward, face down. He landed on Evan's legs.

With a shriek, Evan kicked his legs free, kicked the other tribute's maimed head away from him. A cannon echoed through the arena, announcing the second death within the span of a few minutes. Then silence enveloped Evan, blessed silence. Until reality slowly seeped back into his awareness.

He knew he had to move away, so that the hovercraft could retrieve the dead, but how could he? One of them was Chalen, his ally, his friend...

His gaze fell on the spear the Career still clutched, even when dead not parting from his weapon. A small voice in the back of his mind reminded Evan that he should take the weapon, see himself armed, but he knew he couldn't bring himself to do that. This was the weapon which had killed his last ally. He wouldn't carry that around with him.

He didn't know how many minutes had passed, when he finally crawled away from the scene, down the hill, to let the hovercraft do its duty. It was only when it once more disappeared that another thought hit him: There were now only eight tributes left. He had made it to the Final Eight. By tradition they would now interview the families of the remaining tributes to give them a chance to attract sponsors for their family member in the arena. But would they actually interview his grandmother? Or would they deny it to him and her because the family was officially still in disgrace? He didn't know...

* * *

 _District Four - Mr. Tobin_

He sat outside on the porch, carefully examining the fishing net for any repairs it might require. This morning's catch had been a rather good one, but those usually also caused the biggest strain on the equipment. And like any good fisherman, Mr. Tobin knew to check his equipment as soon as possible to have enough time at hand for potential repairs, before he needed it again. One by one, he examined the knots and strands finding very little which needed to be reinforced.

A shriek from his wife inside had him look up alarmed, but her words of "Oh my, this is absolutely perfect" saw him relax once more. Apparently she had finally found that old skirt she had been looking for, ever since she had happened to mention to his sister that she had one, whose fabric was almost identical to the one of Carla's good dress. With a bit of clever piecework it would allow the bride to alter the dress in a becoming way to still fit her by the time of her wedding.

He continued his work, pausing every now and then to watch out over the sea. It was one of the advantages of living in District 4: almost all houses had sea view.

A neighbour walked down the street, a fisherman like him, returning home. Mr. Tobin had actually seen him earlier in the port, but apparently the other had stopped for a hot mug and chat in the market.

Seeing him however walk up to their house instead of continuing to his own surprised Mr. Tobin.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.

Mr. Tobin blinked. His first thought was that something had happened to Marsten. Though it was to be a wedding present, everyone knew the kind of offer he was going to make to the young man. But then it dawned upon him that his neighbour was actually speaking of his son, of Connor. That Connor was dead.

His son... It surprised him, how little the news affected him. Yes, he had not understood his son lately, but he was still his son... And yet...

Thanking the neighbour for his sympathies, Mr. Tobin continued his repair works.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3

Tybor Rejewski, D3 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Haden Steinmetz, D9 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Alicia Quinn, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Coralee Lume, D7 – killed by Madeline Parker, D11

Chalen Nimara, D8 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Connor Tobin, D4 – killed by Evan Harris, D5


	35. Chapter 32 - Arena: Eight

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 32: The arena – Eight**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

The Final Eight... Some of the audience might be thinking 'finally', but Claudius thought the timing was comparatively good. Games which were too fast paced didn't allow the interviews with the families to have the aimed for impact. Sponsor money not only saw the tributes have a better chance at the games; it effectively financed the Hunger Games to a large part. But if the interviews were too early in the games, then too few people would be interested in sponsoring, not having seen enough of the tributes to really care for them. More than a week into the games though people would have seen the remaining eight tributes quite a few times on the screen and would have an idea what these kids were capable of. Add to this the glimpses caught of them in extraordinary situation like the parade or the interview with Caesar, it was now time for the families to let the audience catch a glimpse of the real person, their lives, their dreams and hopes. The more genuine interest the home story generated, the better, as people wanted interesting victors and would then be willing to back them up with even more sponsor money. And given the comparatively meagre food resources of the arena, the mentors would almost desperately hope for good interviews to make sure their tributes had the strength for the final part of the games. Add to this individual needs...

Another thing that kept the Capitol talking, were the actions which had led to the Final Eight. Any fashion-oriented person in the city – which meant at least two thirds of the population – had been grieved at the death of the girl from District 8. Quite a few had supported the sponsor sales campaigns of the fashion houses and surprisingly many were seen with at least a black armband the day after. It might even evolve into a fashion trend of its own. At least they had been revenged immediately by the girl's ally. It was also something the more bloodthirsty among the audience appreciated... the way the boy from District 5 had let go of everything in his rage... It had truly been surprising. Apart from the moment when the boy from District 3 had killed the one from District 2 there had been no really ferocious deaths. And unlike the boy from District 3 the one from District 5 did not appear to be disoriented and weighed down with guilt, which was really promising.

The first interviews arrived and Claudius now had to program the split screen so that the audience could see what the respective tribute was doing while his or her loved ones at home were answering questions. He would then also grab a key sentence from each interview to incorporate in future summaries, but also the final recap.

Some parents and siblings were natural at this; some were just painful to watch. With this in mind, Claudius didn't envy the interview crews in the least. Just listening to the proud and boasting father from District 1 clearly showed he was one falling into the second category. The brother though was much better, talking about Marten's love for his nephew and wishing that his brother would one day enjoy the happiness of fatherhood himself. It might even make a good sentiment to use in the summaries as it was something the audience could connect with.

* * *

 _Marten Cooper, D1, 18Y_

Though no longer the safe haven it used to be, Marten had returned to the Cornucopia after the encounter with Abelia. Yes, there was a chance that Connor had claimed the ship, but Marten actually welcomed this chance. Even with his sentiment of hoping that they might make up half of the Final Eight, it would not happen before another two tributes had died. As such he wouldn't mind too much taking Connor out of the competition as he agreed with Abelia that he was truly dangerous.

There also was the matter that Abelia and him aside, the Final Eight would comprise six more tributes of which he didn't know the location. But the Final Eight usually meant sponsor gifts. As such he intended to watch the skies and use the gifts to track down these tributes. This however meant that he needed the best elevated point for his observations to see as far as possible. And the roof of the Cornucopia's bridge was without a doubt the most suitable place for this. He wished he had some binoculars, but Marten felt confident that he would still be able to make out the movement of a sponsor gift floating down even if it was a mere glinting speck against the night sky.

The Cornucopia however was deserted and only being back here brought home with full force how much he missed his former allies. There had always been someone here... even when he had stayed behind on guard duty, he knew the others would be back eventually. There had always been conversation, plans to make, companionship. But more than this he came to realize that he missed their food procuring abilities. To be sure, by now even he recognized the main edible plants of the arena, but of course they had already picked all of those which had grown close to the Cornucopia. And Marten felt it made no sense to walk a considerable distance to gather plants when these plants barely replenished the energy expended. Gathering them when returning from an exploration to discover other tributes was one thing; this however was something completely different. Besides, he wanted to stick close to the Cornucopia to be ready for when they hit the Final Eight. Add to the plant dilemma the loss of the fishing net, when fish easily had been their one true protein source outside the supply provided by the gamemakers – which by now was all but gone – he found himself growing unaccustomedly hungry. Abelia had once mentioned that even some string with a small bit of twig tied to one end would work as fishing line, but using one of his shoe laces for this did not get him the hoped for result. Either he was doing something wrong or the fish were spoilt and only wanted to be caught by nets. And he had no idea how to create a suitable net, despite having some rope at hand.

As such he was really happy when during the hottest hour of the eighth day a sponsor gift floated towards him. Marten grinned. Apparently his mentors had not only recognized his plight, but also that the heat would have most tributes seek shelter, thus preventing them from seeing the gift and tracking Marten. He made sure to keep this in mind for his own plans, as surely other mentors would catch on. Which meant he had to craft some shade for his chosen lookout. First though he would enjoy the fresh bread his mentors had sent.

The next morning was rather loud. Two dead tributes and another ship blown to bits. Though knowing that the Cornucopia as the very centre of the arena was probably the last ship to explode, Marten did not feel comfortable with this audible reminder of possible doom at the hands of the gamemakers. Hopefully however he would not have to stay much longer.

He mentally calculated when they might reasonably expect those sponsor gifts. Even if the TV crews had been already stationed in the districts by the time these latest deaths had occurred, which might have been the case if the Capitol had deployed them by the time the total of tributes alive had dropped to ten, it would take probably a couple of hours to get the interviews done and sent to the Capitol. So the earliest the interviews could reasonably be broadcasted was around noon – and that only if they were quick. And with that additional sponsor money being donated only after the airing of the interviews, this meant it was impossible to have any sponsor gifts before tonight. Marten sighed with relief. Though he had crafted something which resembled an umbrella, using his jacket, a bit of piping and some rope, he much preferred spending the afternoon inside the Cornucopia as opposed to the bridge's roof. It would also allow him to catch a bit of sleep before his night watch.

Dusk came and Marten climbed up on the roof. The western and the north-eastern sky he would not search, he had decided during the afternoon. He knew that any sponsor gift coming down in the western sky was in all likelihood meant for Abelia and to the north-east lay the hills which offered too many options of concealment and no clear view to track a tribute effectively.

The sky grew continuously darker, but wherever he looked, he could not make out any sponsor gift. Well, it was still early, he told himself. He had, after all, no real comparison for the time it took between the sixteenth death in the arena and the sponsor deals being struck. Not to mention that even then some mentors might wait before sending anything for strategic reasons. He just hoped his own plan was not too obvious to the watching mentors or else none would send any gift while he was scanning the skies. Hopefully they just assumed he was looking for approaching tributes.

Midnight came and he was both grieved and relieved to see Connor's picture in the sky. So much for his dreams of their alliance making up half of the Final Eight. But maybe it was better this way. Marten certainly acknowledged Abelia's warning that Connor might have become unpredictable having been left to his own. And he certainly felt that it was easier to kill a tribute he had not gotten to know as well as he had gotten to know his former allies. While he would never go so far as to call them friends, they were no strangers either.

By dawn he was getting really tired. All those long hours staring intently into the dark sky had taken their toll. But just as he was contemplating getting down to catch some sleep, he saw that tiny moving speck in the sky he had been looking for all the time. It was slightly to the south-west, so if he hurried, he should be able to catch sight of the receiving tribute, before he or she inevitably moved on. Invigorated by the prospect, Marten climbed down and, snatching his prepared backpack, set out.

It was farther away that he had expected and soon he began to worry not only about missing the tribute, but also about the rising sun. While he knew he had the means to create a makeshift shelter to protect him from the worst of the sun, it would also leave him comparatively vulnerable. As such, he was all the more surprised, when he literally stumbled over such a makeshift shelter about an hour before the sun reached its zenith. What was more so, a soft moan and landing on something that was at the same time soft and bony, told him that the shelter he had just brought down was occupied.

Expecting frantic resistance, Marten fought to regain his bearings. He had to stay on top of things, in more than one way. He fumbled for his sword but realized it would not work that well so close to the opposition. Instead he drew his knife. Yanking back the shelter's cover, he focussed on the jugular. Tuning out everything else, he forced himself to be quick about it.

Only afterwards did he see that his victim was a girl, from District 6 if he recalled correctly. The cannon sounded, but in its wake, Marten heard something else, something much closer: a rustling in the grass. Looking in that direction, he perceived a girl running towards him; spear in hand, ready to throw it.

How could he have been so stupid? The shelter, the things, there were too many for a single tribute. Not even he carried that much stuff with him. Of course there had to be a second person, an ally. Just because their alliance had broken up several days ago did not mean there might not be other small surviving alliances out there.

Marten scrambled back on his feet, intent to get away from the approaching tribute, but got caught in some of the shelter. Finally, he managed to break free, but the girl was already awfully close. Should he wait and try to take her down as well or flee? Her spear however gave her a greater range than he had with his weapons, unless he tried to throw his knife. He could do it, he knew, but the past minutes, the kill and the struggle with the shelter had left him a bit wobbly, so his aim might be off. And it was his only knife. On the other hand, he recognized the approaching tribute now as the girl from District 11 and remembered her aiming accuracy with those spears during training. That decided it from him. Flight it would be!

However, he had barely gotten ten meters away, when a whirring sound alerted Marten of the approaching spear. He managed to turn slightly so that the spear impacted with his backpack instead of his body, but the momentum carried the weapon all the way through the pack and managed to still pierce his back. He could feel that the wound he had sustained was neither deep nor life threatening at the moment, but it hurt nevertheless. Still he kept running, not even stopping to yank the spear from his backpack, despite the fact that the tip as such caused him further pain. He had to get away first. Only then could he examine the damage done to both him and his belongings.

* * *

 _Rufa Coley, D4, 17Y_

It had been the right thing to break away from the alliance when she had, Rufa had no doubt. But the angry howl she could hear from her hiding spot, barely two hundred meters downstream of the fishing spot, sent shivers of fear down her back. This was the most dangerous moment of her whole plan. Everything depended on Connor heading upstream. Yes, it was the more logical choice, but exactly the reason why she had waded downstream instead, until she had found a cluster of reeds which might conceal her.

Cowering down and breathing only flatly, she waited for Connor to move. Relief flooded her, when her ruse worked and he disappeared upstream. She eased herself out of the reeds and then retreated as fast as she could to the western outskirts of the hills, putting as much distance between her and Connor as was prudently possible.

At dusk, she finally ventured out into the plains west of the hills and turned towards the north shore of the lake. Yes, she might be visible there to other tributes, especially her former allies, but so would be any approaching tribute. And the lake meant access to water. There had been no other water course so far on that side of the lake that she had seen, so sticking close to the lake seemed reasonable.

It was about an hour to midnight, when she came upon a small hollow in the ground. This was as perfect as it would get, she decided. If she managed to camouflage herself and her belongings just a bit, she might rest here for the night.

The death of another tribute occurred, followed by an explosion. Rufa did not really care. She was still alive, that was all that counted in her eyes.

She surveyed the hollow, then decided that the fishing net, interwoven with grass and reeds should make a sufficient attempt at concealing her. She set to work, but she was getting really tired by now. The anthem echoed through the arena with the death earlier that night being explained as that of the girl from District 7. Finally Rufa deemed the net done and crawled under it and into her sleeping bag.

The next morning she woke to the unmistakable smell of fish having taken a bad turn. All through yesterday, she had carried the fish with her, not daring to leave it behind lest it told the others in which direction she had gone.

Initially she had hoped to cook the fish over a small fire, but mindful that a fire was just as telling as the dumped fish, she had buried that hope. Eventually, last night, she had then simply dumped the fish on the ground to free the net for her camouflaging. Rufa shook her head. She clearly had not been thinking straight last night.

With a slight groan she got up. She would have to bury the fish. Dumping it into the lake was no option as the rotting gases might affect the very water she intended to drink, and leaving it in the open again would tell her position, never mind that soon enough the smell would become unbearable.

As she dug the hole, she tried to decide what to do afterwards. According to the plan she had come up with during the training days, she should now try to lure other tributes into a trap so she could take them out. There was however a huge problem: The traps would only work if the other tributes stumbled into them and she had no idea where the other tributes were. Not to mention that her own former allies might be actively hunting for her. There was a small possibility that Connor had returned to Abelia and Marten and now it would be the three of them against her. Which also scrapped the idea or rather the dream of goading Connor while using height to her advantage. It would have worked with a tree or a cliff, but there were no such features in this arena. And the only thing which offered height were the wrecked ships, but these, too, easily allowed someone else to sneak up on her from behind while she was busy goading someone at the front. And with three of them, they could still effectively surround a ship. So until she could be sure that they had broken up – which would either be the case if one of them died or when they reached the Final Eight – she could not really even begin whatever trap-laying she would come up with. So for now it would be in her interest to simply stay put, go over her plans, refine them, and not be overpowered and killed by some other tribute.

Staying put however was easier said than done, as the terrain she had chosen was not the best for building a defensible fort. At least not, without taking more time than she had available. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she could only really fortify her shelter. She could camouflage it better and protect the entrance.

It was then, that she had one of her better ideas for that day. She retrieved the throwing stars from her backpack and started to tie them on to a length of cord, spaced out irregularly. There might be only a dozen throwing stars, but these were enough to create some kind of barbed curtain. It was not much, but it would distract the perpetrator and alert her. She only wished she had enough throwing stars to also prepare the net this way. That's when she got her second good idea, though she cringed a bit at the thought of what it meant. Not too far from her was a good amount of fishbone, perfect to make the camouflage net all prickly and uncomfortable to anyone who landed on it. All she had to do was dig up that fish again... Why hadn't she had that idea earlier? Well, it couldn't be helped.

While she had been too exhausted to worry too much about the security of her shelter the previous night, this night she went to sleep quite satisfied with her own efforts to keep herself safe.

Morning came and with it the announcement by cannon that they had reached the Final Eight. Rufa sported a big grin. Now her trap strategy would come into play. However, there were two problems: One was that she still had no idea where the other tributes were, so did not know where to set up suitable traps for them, and the other that she did not know which tributes she had to set up traps for, as another two had just been taken out of the games. And it certainly would not do to set up a trap for someone who was already dead. The information to the latter problem would eventually be available but at midnight and she could not really stay put for another day. The audience would get bored with her then, even if the gamemakers did not interfere to give the interviews time to make an impact and the mentors time to reap the sponsor money due to that impact. But a bored audience would not sponsor her, no matter how good an interview her family gave. And she needed sponsors, as going actively after other tributes with her traps meant she would have no time to go fishing to keep herself fed.

Somehow the whole situation felt like second day again. She had been excited at being part of the strong pack, at being alive and ruling the arena for a foreseeable future. At the same time she had been anxious to make her first kill to prove her worth to her allies. Now she had to prove her worth to the audience, again preferably through a kill.

Unbidden, the pictures of the startled girl who had been her first kill crept up on her. Eyes wide open as she had perceived Rufa and her spear. The sight of the life leaving her eyes as the spear found its mark... Rufa remembered the girl from the recaps of the Reaping. Her volunteering despite her illness, or because of it as the girl had emphasised in her interview with Caesar, had certainly left an impression. She had been a year younger than Saffia and had still volunteered. Rufa wondered what Saffia had said when she had seen the recaps, but Rufa did not regret preventing her younger sister from volunteering. She did not want her anywhere near the arena. The arena was a horrible place. Even if she herself had managed to stay alive till now, it was a horrible place. Having to kill, or being killed... No, she didn't want Saffia here. Not now, not ever! Though she realized that even if she somehow won these games, Saffia would still be subject to the Reaping and in three years would be the same age Rufa was now. It would be hypocritical to tell her not to volunteer then if that was what Saffia wanted. At least however she would then stand a fighting chance, whereas anyone who had been reaped for these games and had been below the age of fifteen was already dead.

Pictures of another little girl came to her mind. The youngest... It had come a bit of a surprise that she had made it as far as she had, but that was most likely due to her allies. Yet, they had been more than allies... the way that boy had thrown himself in front of her to protect her... Her sister could never have counted on such an ally. Theirs was an alliance of convenience. Compassion had no place in it. Not for each other and not for the tributes they killed.

Again she saw the two girls in her mind, dying, but especially the one from District 9, the one she had killed.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek. Rufa was startled when she felt the liquid on her skin, but then a relieved smile broke out on her face. She might have been part of the Big Alliance, but she still had her compassion. She could and would mourn the dead – when she had time. And she would have all the time she wanted after she won those games. So back to making plans for traps and show those plans to the audience.

It took her a while to come up with a decent way of communication and even longer to settle on her traps, but a stick and wet sand in which to draw simple images solved the first part and eventually she understood that with an arena as large as this and only eight remaining tributes, she'd have to lure tributes into her direction. A fire should do that job. This did not allow her to choose which tribute to trap first, but if she had a defendable place, it would make no difference. And whereas she had previously dismissed a ship out of fear of an alliance of three people or more, she now felt it was her best bet.

Apparently the audience had gotten the message or Finnick had worked a miracle, because just before dusk, she received an apple in a net for her efforts. And while the apple might be little in terms of food, the net more than made up for it. It was a decent sized cast net. Perfect for traps!

* * *

 _Griffin Doyle, D6, 18Y_

Two more cannons echoed through the arena before they had really decided on which parts of scrap metal to take with them. Another explosion followed. Both Maarck and Griffin first eyed the pile of a former ship warily, then exchanged meaningful glances. For all they knew the ship which had just been blown up could have been the one they had stayed in until recently.

Griffin was glad that he had managed to talk Maarck into abandoning the ship and then share the knowledge he had gained from his brief conversation with Mary in a way that did not arouse the other's suspicion. Griffin was not sure about it, but he doubted that Maarck would have really understood why he had just talked to the other girl instead of revenging Coralee or at the least take out some competition. And considering that Mary, despite her spear skills, had been weighed down by an unconscious Cassiopeia, he should have stood a chance. Yet he hadn't taken it.

Now however there was a distinct possibility that someone else had taken that chance. Because if Mary had not abandoned his district partner back then, no way would she have done so in the meantime. As such they had been vulnerable and there had been two cannons. Griffin was surprised how much the idea grieved him. He knew that there could be only one victor, but somehow, before he had entered the arena, even back when he had first formulated his strategy, this had always been a vague concept. Now though, while he had played the system and followed the strategy and as a result of this had killed the boy from District 3, he gradually came to understand that the games were more than this. The players were more than just tributes, or mere cogs in a system. While there had never been the almost instant connection he had felt with Maarck or even Mary, he had known Coralee. In some ways she had just been an ally, but in a more subtle way she had been more than that. And her death brought home that the games were also about killing that 'more'. Sooner or later it would be people who were even closer to him than Coralee, who would die. Mary... Maarck... or he might be the first to go, leaving the others behind. Neither thought was comforting. Maybe that was why the Careers were strictly an alliance of convenience. Even at the beginning, when they hunted as one big pack, there was always a certain distance between them. And yet Griffin found that he did not want to change things as they were. He did not want to feel distant to Maarck. In fact, he did not even want to break up their alliance, even though they had now reached the magical Final Eight where even the Careers broke up. He knew they stood much better chances surviving if they stuck together because for all they knew there were still four Careers left. Together they would be able to take out a single Career, despite the Career having more combat training than they had. Alone however they might not stand that chance.

On the other hand it would be better to break up now, or at least sooner rather than later, as otherwise it might come to the point where they had to fight each other and this was something Griffin wanted even less. He did not want to fight Maarck and he was sure the other didn't want to fight him either. But if it came down to it, the gamemakers would ensure they did and with victory so near, both would do it. And most likely hate oneself for the rest of their lives. So while lessening their chances of survival by breaking up now it would increase their chance of not having to fight the other.

It was really confusing. It was not merely a battle between mind and heart; it was a battle between mind and mind, between heart and heart. Unsure perhaps for the first time of himself, of his strategy, of how he wanted to go on, Griffin stared blankly at the scrap metal.

"So, what about this scrap palace we are going to build?" Maarck's voice drew him out of his contemplations and in that moment Griffin decided that he might as well stay with Maarck a little longer. Maybe until the Feast. There usually was a Feast at some point as with a dwindling number of tributes, the gamemakers had to give them an incentive to come together at a certain point to ensure some more fighting. Yes, the Feast was soon enough to part ways with Maarck. The latest, Griffin figured, this would happen was when there were four tributes left, which still meant that there were two others who could take out either him or Maarck and prevent them from having to fight each other. He could live with that, he decided.

"Sure, we had better start moving before it gets too hot," Griffin agreed.

It was hard work to get even the few parts they needed to their original camp site as they also had to carry all their other possessions, but by the time the sun was at its hottest, they finally reached the spot. Exhausted, they dropped their load and just strung up the blanket for protection, then dozed off. It was no deep sleep by any means, the constant dangers of the arena kept the adrenaline too high for that, but it was restful enough to allow them to regain some strength and build their shelter by dusk.

"Final Eight," Maarck mused as he tried to weave grass together in a fashion to disguise the shelter. "I wonder what Don now thinks of us, of me. If he's actually trying to get me some sponsor money... or rather that Wendy is doing this..."

"I'm sure they will," Griffin replied. "You have proven to be resourceful. People will be interested to see how far you can make it. So they will sponsor you."

"But that doesn't mean Don will actually spend it on me right now. I mean, we are doing pretty well right now. We have food, we have water, we have shelter, we have even staffs as weapons. So he might want to save it for later, for something I then desperately need." Maarck explained his doubts.

"True, but while we have food, it is not that plenty. Or well balanced. Even a tesserae-only diet is more balanced that what we have here, as the tessera grain is engineered to include carbs and protein as well as vitamins. It sure doesn't taste well, but it will keep you alive and reasonably healthy. Our diet here is based mainly on proteins – insects and fish. It's been days now since we last had some bread or apples. And our mentors, or in my case Pancratius, will know that the longer we continue with such malnutrition, the more we lose in terms of strength. I don't know if it will affect our muscles or bones or organs or whatever, but we will get weaker, even if we continue to survive. And a weak tribute will be easy pickings for the stronger ones. So guess who'll win these games? And no matter what Don thinks of you, he surely wants another victor for District Ten. So he'll make sure you are as strong as possible with the help of the sponsor money." Griffin reasoned. "As for things you might need later desperately – those things are usually too expensive for sponsor money anyway and will only be given out at the Feast."

Neither of them knew how prophetic their words were. Sure enough, both their mentors sent plentiful gifts of food to them the next morning. Bread and apples for Maarck, while Griffin also got some cherries and a bit of cheese. It was simply delicious. Knowing that with the heat most of it would spoil all too soon, they ate heartily, only keeping a bit of bread for later, as it could be soaked in fish broth and made edible again.

Around noon, Griffin busied himself with setting their fish traps again, while Maarck checked the disguise of the shelter, when another cannon echoed through the arena. And no matter how often they had heard that sound before, they still startled every time. Griffin heard Maarck wince and when he looked at him questioningly, the other held up his arm. "Scratched myself at the metal." Maarck shrugged and went down to the watercourse to clean the wound.

Several hours later though it was still a vivid red and hot to the touch, which worried Griffin decidedly. And it was only now that he realized what that 'more' was, he felt for Maarck, what the name for the connection was, he felt for the other boy: friendship. While Griffin had many close acquaintances as school back home, the fact that he had been an orphan in his early years and later had been groomed by Moses to take over the garage had limited that aspect of his life severely. Moses was both father and best friend to him, but till now he had never really had a good friend who was his own age. One who literally went through hell with him. And it hurt knowing that this friendship was doomed as either or both of them would die over the next few days.

* * *

 _Abelia Shale, D2, 18Y_

The ship no longer being the safe haven she had hoped for, Abelia now had no reason to stay there any longer. It simply made no sense, no matter how nice it was in terms of shelter. At the minimum she should move at least so far along the river to be outside the potential blast zone. This left her with two options: upstream or downstream. Downstream however she knew that the bushes got fewer and she knew that she would need at least a few of them to create some other shelter and the sun made a shelter a necessity. So upstream it would be.

Preferably the spot where she built her shelter was also a little bit elevated so as to allow her to have a decent view over the immediate surroundings.

Hoping that no tributes died while she was gathering her belongings from within the ship and waited for the worst of the afternoon heat to pass, she got ready to look for a new place to stay.

The trek upstream was unremarkable if not a little boring. She gathered a few plants along the way when she encountered them, but all too soon it got too dark for distinguishing plants properly. But it was still light enough to judge the landscape, so she trudged on, continuing to look for a suitable spot. Midnight came and she had still not found the least elevation. Getting tired, Abelia decided to rest for the remaining hours of the night. How she wished she had something better to build a shelter with than the bright red blanket, but the jacket was too small to properly lie under...

Just as she was crawling into her sleeping bag, she heard something drop down behind her improvised shelter. Instantly alert, she grabbed a knife and cautiously peered around. When she saw what had caused the noise, her eyes widened with joyful surprise. Not even five meters from where she was lay a package with a parachute in the grass. A sponsor gift.

Casting one last glance around to make sure nobody else was around, waiting to ambush her, she dashed for the package. Ripping it open, she found a decent sized piece of tarpaulin. It was too dark to make out the colour properly, but knowing Lyme Abelia was sure her mentor had sent her something dust or mud coloured. Something, which would not stand out as much as the red blanket. "Thank you!" Abelia whispered delightedly, and despite her tiredness, she instantly took down the blanket and set up the tarpaulin instead as shelter. No need to tempt fate.

The next morning she continued her track, though when the cannons told her that they had now reached the Final Eight, she couldn't suppress a small smile. She was among the Final Eight, just as it was supposed to be. And Lyme had shown marvellous timing in sending her the sponsor gift. To be sure, the sand coloured tarpaulin would have been quite expensive, but the interview from her family should help Lyme to replenish the sponsor fund should she require something else. Yes, things were definitely looking good for her. Now all she needed was a good spot to set up camp.

Once more Abelia looked around, but still the landscape was far from perfect. It was not even suitable if she was willing to compromise. So she would have to continue upstream. Just as she adjusted the strips of her backpack a little bit, Abelia saw something curious in the not so far distance. Something was flickering, distorting the air. Squinting, she tried to make out what it was, when the same phenomenon repeated itself slightly to her left. And then on her right.

Her eyes widened with shock when she realized just what she was seeing. Those were dust devils, rising up in the stirring wind, dancing around a bit and then dying down again. Up and down, and up... Now two of them had merged. And the third was heading their direction as well...

But just as she waited to see them join together, they split up instead, only to be no longer whirling dust devils, but the beginning of a sandstorm front.

Abelia gulped. She instantly knew this was the gamemakers' doing. She had long considered sandstorms to be one natural tool for them in an arena like that. But she really could have done without getting confirmation first hand. Damn! What was she thinking? This storm, it was obviously a warning to turn around and head back to where she had come from. And yet, she felt as if she was glued to the spot, oddly fascinated by the sight in front of her – an ever growing sandstorm moving in on her with every second that passed.

Only when the first grains of sand hit her face could she tear herself away from the spectacle. But by then it was too late. Even though she tried to follow the stream so as not to lose direction, she soon was stumbling blindly over knolls of grass, tore her trousers at some snagging branches, trying desperately to see just the step ahead of her. Still she kept moving. She really had to, there was no other choice. She had to move to eventually make it outside of what the gamemakers considered the 'no trespassing' area. All she could hope for was that she did not succumb to the natural circular drift people were prone to have when having lost orientation. At least she could use the lessening or increase of the sandstorm as orientation. Unless of course the gamemakers really wanted to mess with her.

Abelia had lost all sense of direction as well as time when the storm finally let up. The only thing she could be certain of was that she was no longer too far away from the centre of the arena for the gamemakers' liking. But she had no idea where the centre was. Whichever direction she looked, she could not see a stream or ship to help her get back on track. Not to mention that she needed a stream to get water. Her throat was incredibly dry and her mouth coated with dust, with what water she had been carrying with her hardly being able to make a difference. Damn it, why hadn't she been more careful? Why hadn't she been more alert? Instead of stupidly turning around to outrun the storm, she should have stepped into the stream and then moved downstream. This way the water's splashing and the wetness would have told her that she was still moving in the right direction.

She sighed. It was no use berating herself for things she could no longer change. She simply had to walk on, hoping to find a landmark soon to help her set a more decisive route. And if everything else failed, she simply had to trust Lyme to prevent her from succumbing to dehydration.

Two more times the gamemakers sent her dust devils as warning that she was moving the wrong direction, but Abelia made sure to change her path immediately and thus avoided being caught in another sandstorm.

Eventually she could go no further. The storm and the sun as well as the lack of sufficient amounts of water where taking their toll. She dropped down where she was, with only her years of training reminding her that no matter what, she should protect herself from the elements with some shelter. Even if it was just a little crawl-in shelter. Well, she mused as she secured the tarpaulin with some stones and propped it up with her backpack, at least this shelter is so low to the ground that she might escape the notice of another tribute passing by.

Hours later she awoke to find another sponsor gift. It was a small bottle of water. Abelia had no idea if this was all Lyme could afford at this point, if it was all she would be able to send her till the games ended with water being an incredibly expensive gift, or if she was sending her only a bit now so she could reach the next stream safely and was back in the games for good and Lyme being able to send her something else. In any case she was grateful for it. And now that the sun was setting, the sun itself provided suitable orientation as opposed to earlier, when it had been simply too bright to check out.

And really, by the time the sun had sunk behind the horizon and night was claiming the sky Abelia reached a stream. She was even able to see a ship looming in the far distance downstream. Given their many tracking expeditions, she was sure she'd recognize it and then know exactly where she was in relation to the lake and the Cornucopia.

The ship however proved to be farther away than she had expected, while her body still suffered the after effects of the sandstorm. Just listening to her ragged breath, Abelia could tell that her throat would take some time to heal. It also put her at a disadvantage, as it made ambushing another tribute successfully all the more difficult. As such she decided to rest for the night, hoping that with plenty of water and some more sleep her throat would be in a better state by the next morning. Just in case the ship she would use for orientation happened to be occupied by some other tribute.

It proved to be the right decision. The ship was occupied, which surprised Abelia somewhat as she recognized it as the very ship she had abandoned only recently herself. As she was rounding the stern, she caught glimpse of a backpack on the deck and soon enough heard the tribute who owned the pack. Wood was cracking, apparently being set up to make a fire. It suited Abelia well, as the noise would disguise her approach even with her breath being still raspy. She did not know who the firemaker was, but she was intent on pressing her advantage and take out her competition. Raising her spear, she approached the figure crouching over a pile of wood as softly as possible.

It was only after the spear had left her hand that she recognized the tribute. It was Rufa.

* * *

 _Angus Fraser, D6_

It was time. Turning off the small television set, Angus slowly got up. He quietly wiped away a tear that had formed in his eye. Ever since his girl had received that blow on the head, he had been waiting for this moment. Checking the clock on the wall, he knew where he had to go. It would be a long trek to the oil fields for an old man like him, but if ever someone had needed him it was Mr. Jansen on this day.

Cassiopeia's father had indeed come over a few times for dinner and Angus had come to like the man, despite the fact that he had understood too late that children in their world were always at risk and that no amount of money could keep them safe, but that spending time with them made sure at least their hearts were safe. Now if only the Missis could learn this lesson as well... But Mrs. Jansen seemed to think that as long as she did her utmost at work, it would keep her daughter safe in the arena. Well, he would be there for Mr. Jansen and in turn Mr. Jansen would be there for his wife as she faced the truth.

Somehow, Angus felt that despite the sorrow and sadness, there was hope for them.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3

Tybor Rejewski, D3 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Haden Steinmetz, D9 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Alicia Quinn, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Coralee Lume, D7 – killed by Madeline Parker, D11

Chalen Nimara, D8 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Connor Tobin, D4 – killed by Evan Harris, D5

Cassiopeia Jansen, D6 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Rufa Coley, D4 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2


	36. Chapter 33 - Arena: Six

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 33: The arena – Six**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

As was his habit every morning, the first thing Claudius did at work was to head for the coffee counter. It was not so much the hot and black beverage he cared for, but the mug. Claudius had notoriously cold hands. At least during the Hunger Games season... It was a stress related disease called Raynaud's disease and while having a less stressful job might be the better solution, Claudius also loved his job and so the mug of hot coffee to keep his fingers warm had to do.

This morning however, he was not the only one at the coffee counter who clutched the mug as if it held deliverance. Next to him stood Headgamemaker Gaius Mendelev and he looked positively ill. Claudius was intrigued. As stressful as the gamemakers' job was, and that of the Headgamemaker doubly so, they always projected an air of cool nonchalance. It was part of the business if they wanted to keep their jobs, because otherwise there were enough sharks out there ready to use any weakness to throw out the old one and install themselves as the new one. So this was a really uncharacteristic show of emotion.

"Rough night?" Claudius asked cautiously, trying to sound out the Headgamemaker a bit. After all, whatever had worked up Mendelev that much, might affect his work as well. It was all too easy to miss important things to include in summaries or live feeds, if one only knew half the deck of cards one was supposed to be playing with.

Gaius shook his head and stared down into his cup. "Not so much. We are down to six."

Claudius acknowledged the unsaid statement that there had been no noteworthy action that night, but that was to be expected. With only six tributes remaining, there would be pockets of lull, despite the fact that somehow the games would progress to the point where there was just one last tribute standing.

"Might as well already call it five," Gaius mumbled quietly in disgust, but not quietly enough to escape Claudius' hearing. And it was more the disgust than the words which piqued the commentator's curiosity. He recalled no tribute with an injury severe enough to predict a close death, and the only one who had tripped a gamemaker trap recently was the girl from District 2 with the sandstorm. But as Caesar, with the gamemakers' blessing, had assured the audience in his experts' round: the girl had suffered no lasting harm. At least not in terms of what their wonderful Capitol doctors couldn't fix and her life was not in any way in any immediate danger from whatever damage her lungs had suffered.

"How so?" Claudius couldn't help asking.

Gaius Mendelev hesitated for a moment, then sighed and said: "Might as well tell you in case you have to prepare the audience... The boy from District Ten, his wound... We had not foreseen that by the time the information that the ships were not as safe as they looked to be became common knowledge among the remaining tributes there would be any surviving alliance aside from maybe the Big Alliance. As such we thought the heaps of exploded metal would be left alone, since you need at least two people to remove any piece of scrap that is large enough to build some new shelter from it. The boys from District Six and District Ten however had not only stayed together past that point, but were planning to do exactly that. So we had to up the ante, had to make them understand that the ships were still dangerous."

Claudius pondered this information for a moment. Of course the gamemakers could not simply spray-paint the whole lot in neon green. They had to be subtle. After all, the boys had not been doing anything really wrong. They were within a reasonable distance from the Cornucopia, so no need for an obvious sign such as a sandstorm. They were trying to stay alive and using what was available, and that certainly included the exploded remnants of the ships. So whatever subtle way to taint the debris the gamemakers had just recently used was eating at Gaius Mendelev. It was something that had infected the boy's wound. Maybe even poisoned him... "Is there a cure?" Claudius inquired, thereby saving the Headgamemaker from having to spell out everything.

Mendelev hesitated, then nodded. "But at this stage unaffordable. And I hate..." He stopped himself abruptly.

But Claudius understood him nevertheless. Gaius Mendelev hated the fact that this tribute ultimately was paying for an oversight of the gamemakers.

"The Feast," Claudius simply said. "Draw it out as long as you can, but have it before the boy is beyond helping."

* * *

 _Evan Harris, D5, 16Y_

Evan had not slept well that night. If he had slept at all. Yes, he had made it to the Final Eight. And all through the day he had kept a brave facade, broadcasting the strong tribute that was worth sponsoring, the one that might make it out of the arena alive.

Adding to this image was the fact that he received a sponsor gift of food that day in the early afternoon when the sun was at its hottest and consequently the other tributes would all be seeking shelter. The gift sent out the message that others were already backing him up and surely these people were not just doing it to send him a last meal. The food also gave him back some strength he had not known he had been lacking. It reminded him of how many days he had actually lived on edible plants and adrenaline alone. While good in keeping him alive, they were never really filling him the way the fresh bread did. The smell alone was so tantalizing it made his mouth water. But the food also held a moment of bittersweet truth. One of the reasons, he figured, why his mentors sent him the gift now was because there was a good chance that all available goods for sponsor gifts would face a not so insignificant price increase once the interviews were released as these were sure to bring in new money. So it was a good idea to buy stuff now and get more for the same amount than maybe tomorrow or the day after that. However there was also the fact, that Bal and Estelle knew that now Evan no longer had anyone he would feel compelled to share the food with. Chalen, his last ally, was dead.

As the day wore on, it became harder and harder to ignore that fact. Chalen was dead. And he was not even actively trying to ignore it. But by trying to come up with a decent plan for the next days, a plan that would work both in terms of potential sponsors and keep him alive in the arena, pretty much took his mind off the gruesome truth that was behind all those thoughts. Since it was the practical thing to do, he had eventually returned to the shelter Chalen and he had built. Even though he had reassembled his pack, as he was definitely not willing to leave behind the truly valuable stuff they had acquired, in case he decided flight was wiser than fight and needed to be off in a second, it made absolutely no sense to abandon a perfectly suitable shelter either. Nobody knew he was there, as the only one who had come up here so far aside from Chalen and him was dead as well. But being in the shelter, seeing the items he had packed and those he had not, reminded him of his lost ally wherever he looked. It also reminded him of Alicia and of Haden, and by the time night fell, he was engulfed by a feeling he had never experienced before: that of utter loneliness.

Other people might claim that they thought a clear starlit night sky alone in the open to be truly calming, but to Evan it was rather unsettling. It was strange that in a way, back home, he had always welcomed any moment of solitude. But even in those precious moments of dawn, such as he had described to Finnick back in the Capitol, he had known deep down that he was not alone, despite the fact that he never enjoyed the companionship of others the same way as his classmates did. It came with the stigma and with his work. His classmates usually ignored him unless they wanted to tease him, and male prostitutes could not stand together in small groups of two or three to wait for clients as the female ones did. A male customer interested in a female prostitute might not mind walking up to two or three of them and picking one over the others. It might even give him a sense of power. A male customer interested in a male prostitute was more secretive and in most cases in his mind it was enough if just that one prostitute knew his preference and not a second one who happened to be chatting with the first one. So the male prostitutes tended to keep to themselves. Yes, they saw each other in passing, knew their profession, but it was different. None of them would notice if he didn't turn up at his usual spot anytime soon to be of any help. The girls in this profession had much more of a support network in this way. Still, Evan had managed to cultivate a few contacts among the girls, who then might have gone to his grandmother to see if everything was right with him should he not show up for work. So yes, he had led a comparatively lonely life back home, but thanks to his grandmother and that sparse support network he had, he had never been as lonely as he was now. Even his customers had in a strange way provided him with some companionship. It didn't help either that everyone left out here in the arena was after him to kill him. Life back home was not without dangers either, especially in his line of work, but in the district it were only the few sick ones one had to look out for. And even someone like him might seek help from the peacekeepers in such cases.

The thought of the peacekeepers back home made him instantly remember Harpax and with a sigh Evan wished his strong acquaintance was here to watch over him while he got some much needed rest. What would Harpax be doing right now? But as his thoughts continued to linger upon the subject of the peacekeeper, a new idea formed in his mind. The idea he had actually been looking for the whole day. The peacekeepers always exuded an air of invincibility. And Evan knew it was because they felt safe by the mere fact that they wore protecting armour whenever they went out on patrol. After all, what harm could come to one if even a kitchen knife, thrown in a fury, wasn't able to penetrate deep enough to cause damage to the body? Or in his case a thrown spear? Unfortunately there was no peacekeeper armour lying around here for him to use and feel safer. But Harpax had once shown him, that the armour was more than the hard surface on which a thrown stone would bounce off of. There was also a padded layer underneath of flexible yet dense material to absorb the power of the thrown object and to keep sharp objects from getting to the skin. And while it would be difficult to replicate the hard surface despite the fact that undoubtedly the metal from which the rusty ships had been built would work – not to mention that Evan neither wanted to enter such a ship again nor fancied by chance wearing parts of the explosives on himself and be detonated by the gamemakers this way – he might be able to fashion something akin to the padding out of the long grass vegetation. If he just bundled it together tightly enough and then tied it together, he might fashion himself some protective padding.

With the dawn of the new day, Evan accordingly began to look for the best grass to twist together and tie into bundles he could arrange into the protective gear he so longed for. It was slow going, with several false starts, either because of weak grass or the wrong type used for fixing the bundle, but eventually he found the right mix. Of course it did not speed up his endeavours in the least that every few minutes he felt the compelling need to look around and check that no other tribute was trying to sneak up on him, the intervals of undisturbed work becoming shorter and shorter as the day wore on. Every little noise alerted him, had him fear that one of the remaining three Careers had found him, not to mention the other four tributes that had made it this far. But in all, it had been a Career that had found Chalen and him, so he feared those three more than the rest, as these would be more inclined to hunt down tributes.

He did not know what was worse to him: Being out in the open while gathering grass and reminding him to keep his body hydrated and as such visible, or in the shelter, where while less visible he also had only a limited view of the landscape and was more likely to be ambushed.

By the end of the day however he had managed to create enough grass bundles to twine them together as breast and back cover. This would at least allow him to protect some of his vital organs. Trying on his new armour he noticed that the grass was surprisingly heavy and that his movements were somewhat restricted and the whole thing felt rather awkward. Yet, despite knowing that there were still a lot of unprotected areas of his body that would allow for a swift killing, he felt already better. Yes it was a meagre protection compared to what the Peacekeepers wore, but it was better than nothing and in the Hunger Games, every little bit counted. Besides, this had only been one day and unless the Gamemakers forced him to move, Evan fully intended to continue the work the next day and the day after that, or in other words however long it took him to get that feeling of safety back.

And apparently he was doing enough to keep the audience satisfied because at nightfall the next day he again received a generous sponsor gift of food. Evan admitted to himself that he was a little surprised to see not only bread, but also two apples and even some smoked bacon. Protein and even fat... he could not believe his luck. Plus he doubted that even if the Capitol had done him justice in the interview and gone to his grandmother to get a positive input on him that would have people sponsor him, it would garner him that much money. So it had to have been his show of initiative that got him this food.

Despite looking over his shoulder every minute and more, Evan thoroughly enjoyed the meal and even licked his fingers clean to get every bit of that precious bacon grease. Stomach filled, he even felt the paranoia, which had been taking hold of him more and more, lessening a tiny bit.

Midnight brought the answer to the puzzle of the generous gift when the reason for the two cannons he had heard throughout the day was revealed. The girl from District 4 had died and apparently either Balraj or Estelle had wasted no time to send him a gift bought from her money. Evan couldn't suppress a small smirk. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

* * *

 _Maarck Wijngaard, D10, 17Y_

Maarck felt restless and sluggish at the same time. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He felt devastated and relieved at the same time.

The little scratch on his hand had, despite their best efforts, become inflamed. It was uncomfortably hot and Maarck was all too aware of the slight throbbing that accompanied the wound. And one didn't need to be a doctor to know that all of this never spelled good news. He guessed that whatever infection had entered his body through that scratch had triggered the fever reaction of his body's defence mechanism, depriving him of a lot of energy he could otherwise use. Even picking up the water bottle to drink was becoming an arduous task his sluggish body was reluctant to perform. Yet Griffin continued to coax him to drink, arguing him that it was no use for a miracle medicine to appear of the blue when his body was too dehydrated to make use of the medicine. After all, they had made it that far, were part of the Final Eight, so surely they could expect some kind of miracle. Yet Maarck was not so sure about that. He knew deep down that the kind of miracle he needed, exceeded by far the regular sponsor gift of food at this stage. Medicine at any stage tended to be expensive, more so any good medicine, so he had better not count on any miracle. As such he knew that he was doomed. It was a depressing thought to have made it this far, against all odds, including the little faith of his own mentor, to then succumb to some tiny wound and resulting infection. Yet at the same time Maarck was relieved that it would all be over soon. And more so, that it would be over without having to separate from Griffin and face death all alone or even worse in the form of his friend as would be the case were they the last two tributes and had to battle things out among them. Yes, deep down, Maarck had hoped that fate would allow him to return, but he also knew that every one of the twenty-four that had entered the arena had harboured similar hopes. And he was honest enough to know that, hope aside, there were stronger tributes than him, mentally stronger ones.

"Oh, come on Maarck, you are talking nonsense again," a voice disturbed his musings.

Maarck slowly opened his eyes and barely made out Griffin. "Wha...," he muttered with difficulty.

"It's the fever speaking," Griffin said resolutely. "You are just as strong as anyone who is still alive at this stage. You just need to get rid of that fever and you'll be as good as new. Then you'll show me what else you read into this arena. Or better yet, you'll do the reading but keep it all to yourself and then you'll even outlast me!"

Was that a grin on Griffin's face, Maarck wondered. And if so, why was his friend grinning? Especially when implying that he would die before Maarck? Had he missed something?

It was a struggle, but Maarck eventually pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned forward to get a better look at Griffin.

His friend and ally tried to back away, but Maarck instinctively grabbed Griffin's shoulders, also to steady himself. But Griffin's action confirmed his suspicion that something was wrong and that Griffin tried to keep it from him. As such, Maarck did his best to study his friend's face intently. Griffin appeared a bit flushed, didn't he? Was it just because he was trying to hide whatever it was, or was it something else? A fever perhaps? But wounds usually weren't contagious... And Griffin had always made sure they kept his scratch as clean as possible. Or was the water contaminated? Had the gamemakers messed with the water and it was the reason why his scratch had become inflamed and was also making Griffin ill? No, it couldn't be the water. At least not yet. The Games had not lasted two weeks yet, so no need to already speed up things by disturbing the dynamics this way.

Suddenly Maarck caught the disturbing redness in one of Griffin's eyes. It was strange in that it was only one eye. And it looked far worse than simple rubbing could have caused. Or was he hallucinating?

Eventually Griffin closed his eyes and nodded. "I got it too. Not as bad as you, but that's most likely because I got it a day or two later. I think it was some microbes in your scratch and when I cleaned the wound to dress it with some fresh strips, I got some on my fingers. And even though I knew I had to be careful, I forgot for one moment and rubbed my eye where some sand had gotten caught."

Maarck shrank back in horror. Through his lack of control over his body, he had contracted that forsaken scratch and now he had infected Griffin!

"Oh no, don't you dare and blame yourself!" Griffin immediately chided him, as if once more reading his mind. "It was I who rubbed my eye, who forgot to wash my hands first, despite knowing better!"

"But... if you... had..."

"What? Abandoned you as soon as it became apparent that your scratch was infected?" Griffin shook his head. "We said we would stick together till the Feast and I always keep my promise."

As if they had been listening in on the two boys, suddenly the fanfares blared through the arena and Claudius Templesmith's voice could be heard loud and clear. "Congratulations tributes! You have made it so far and proven your worth. However, all of you have also suffered to the point where there is something you sorely need to go on. As such it has been decided to invite you all to a Feast at break of dawn tomorrow on the banks of the lake."

Maarck, who was revitalized by the news, and Griffin exchanged glances and this time Maarck could read Griffin's mind as well as the friend could read his. Their miracle was actually to come true!

"Maybe you should just rest here and let me retrieve our medicine tomorrow," Griffin suggested.

Maarck immediately shook his head. He knew his friend meant well, that he wanted to spare him the exertion and the danger of going to the Feast and face the most likely unavoidable battle there, which could well spell death for him. But Griffin was not at top condition either, so going to the Feast alone was a harebrained idea. How did he expect to escape with both medical doses unscathed? He told him as much. "Besides, what does it mean 'on the banks of the lake'? The lake has more than one shore side which could be called banks..."

Griffin pondered this for a moment. His eyes widened when he realized what the announcement had meant. "The lake... the Feast will be set on the lake itself! As such it makes no difference from which side you approach the lake, we all will face the same distance to the Feast. Otherwise one tribute might get lucky and be able to snatch all gifts before the others have had a chance to run around the lake to the site of the Feast."

"Great... swimming. Do you know how to swim?" Maarck asked.

Once more the two exchanged glances and both shook their head.

"Makes no sense... they don't know about our swimming abilities so the gamemakers will have to assume that we can't swim. Yet they have to ensure that we can reach the Feast," Griffin grumbled.

This time it was Maarck who provided the solution. "The salt!" he exclaimed. "Most likely the water in the lake is even saltier than that in the brooks and small rivers feeding it. And water with a high enough salt content will keep you buoyant even if you don't know how to swim. So just by treading water we would be able to move forward and not drown."

Griffin grinned. "And you say you don't have it in you to become victor!" He squeezed Maarck's shoulders encouragingly.

Maarck shrugged. "Who knows," he said with a small grin of his own.

"So, let's rest till nightfall, then eat the remaining food from our sponsor gifts and use the night to travel to the lake. Then, near dawn, we enter the lake and paddle to the middle, hoping that the other tributes have not figured out exactly where the Feast will appear, so that we are one step ahead of them," Griffin enthusiastically outlined a plan.

"Sounds good," Maarck approved. "And then, once we both have our bag of medicine we head in separate directions to give each of us better chances to escape..." Seeing Griffin's dismayed face, he gently added: "It'll be our best bet. Besides, we had agreed that we'll break up at the Feast. Not that I want to, but I don't want to force the final battle being between the two of us. Though of course I'll do my best to be one of the contestants of that final fight."

Griffin nodded slowly. "You are right. I just wish it could be different. You are the first real friend my age I had."

Maarck smiled. It felt good to know how much the other one appreciated him.

* * *

 _Marten Cooper, D1, 18Y_

Marten was angry with himself. Yes, his plan to track down other tributes by means of their sponsor gifts had worked in that he had been able to eliminate one more tribute. But in the end he had paid a very high price for that, maybe too high a price. And he could not fault anyone but himself. He was the one who had failed to take into consideration that other alliances might stick together for longer, for whatever reason, than his own had. As such he had failed to notice the second tribute in time. Not only did this mean he had had no opportunity to loot the dead tribute's belongings, but it also had resulted in an enemy's spear finding its target. The scratch on his back, where the light spear had penetrated the backpack, was negligible. But while traversing the backpack, the spear had also nicked the water bottle. It hadn't looked that bad at first. Upon his return to the Cornucopia, Marten had examined the damage, but except for a scratch on his back and one on the bottle, he had only two more holes in his backpack, or so he thought. Turned out that the scratch was more of a fissure crack, because the first time he pushed down the piston, the bottle burst apart.

He just hoped he had not been on life screen when that had happened, because the string of swear words would have had his mother deny any knowledge of him. But the loss of the water bottle was serious. Without water he was as good as dead in this arena. And while his mentors could most likely supply him with water for a day, maybe two, by way of sending sponsor gifts, a new bottle was out of the question. Even if bottles were available to pick as gifts, they would be too expensive by now. Marten knew he needed to replace the water bottle soon.

"Why? Why didn't I take a back-up bottle with me? I scoffed at Abelia, when she packed one of the compartment bottles, and now..." Now he needed to find another tribute soon, kill it and claim that tribute's water bottle for himself. Or some other means to procure a new water bottle.

Alas, he was not lucky a second time in terms of spotting a sponsor gift and tracking the tribute down. Or at least not close enough to be worth the attempt of trying to track down the tribute. Without a water bottle, Marten knew it would be foolish to attempt anything that involved more than three hours walk, less if he intended to run. And he would most likely have to run in order to be successful, or at least move with a swift trot. As such he was ecstatic, when he finally heard Claudius Templesmith announce the Feast. Yes, it still felt an incredible long time away, but at least it was something to look forward to. What else would the gamemakers send him but a water bottle? And then the games would be open again. Plus he already had an advantage. From his lookout on top of the Cornucopia he could easily see tributes approaching the lake and maybe take out some before the Feast arrived. Of course he still fully intended to claim his brand new water bottle there, but he had at long last learned not to discount the notion of a back-up bottle.

He must have fallen asleep. It was the only way he could explain that he suddenly heard the distinct sound of two people wading into the water on his side of the lake, which meant that two tributes had managed to sneak past him to the shore. Judging by the speed with which they moved in the water, they appeared to have left behind their equipment, well concealed, which of course would include the water bottles Marten was after. As such, as tempting as it was to ambush them while they were in the water, he could not do that. With the feast less than an hour away, he did not have the time to search the environs for their packs. Besides, the two tributes were too close together for him to take out safely. Just how many alliance had outlasted their Career alliance?

The only thing Marten could do was to wait till after the Feast and look for a hint in terms of direction in which to look for their stuff. But why were they in the water anyway? Water never was a good fighting ground... It made most movements rather sluggish. Did they think they would be safer there, whoever they were? But the only ones who would really be at advantage in the water, namely Rufa and Connor, were already dead.

As the sky began to grow lighter Marten heard a third person enter the water, this time from the far side of the lake. Still he did not know why anyone would want to enter the cold water, but figuring that nobody would attempt their way directly past his look-out now, as the brightening sky made them easily visible, he decided that he, too, should prepare to head down to the lake. He was still at a bit of a distance from the lake, when he saw a fourth tribute approach the lake from the hills. At the same moment though, he found out what else he had missed and why there were already three people in the water, one of whom he recognized to be Abelia, who all kept an equal distance from each other and the shore, as if knowing that fighting in the water was not wise.

The sun broke past the horizon line, but rather than looking for the break of a new day, all eyes were alerted to an object flying in, accompanied by some blaring trumpets. Marten had no idea what kind of melody it was, but he knew that this flying ship with full sails contained his new water bottle. A ship? Of course! Marten wanted to curse out loud when he realized that the announcement had not specified a certain shore, but the lake itself. Of course they had to swim to get their gifts. And now three tributes were ahead of him and at least Abelia would in all likelihood not hesitate to grab the gift intended for him. So what to do? Marten knew he had only seconds to decide whether to jump into the water himself or give up the notion of obtaining a new bottle and instead settle on getting the bottle of some other tribute as they returned to the shore. He instinctively hated the thought of fighting in the water. Besides, he decided, if he fought on shore against a dripping wet tribute, he would have some undeniable advantages. So the shore it would be. And since he knew of only one tribute which shore he would prefer to return to wherever he hid in the arena, Marten decided that he would use the time the other tributes were battling things out in the water, to cross over to the side where the hills were.

Hoping that the descending ship was distracting the other tributes enough to miss him, he broke out into a swift trot. Still he looked over his shoulder to the lake ever so often and as such was fully aware that the ship was now exactly above the middle of the lake and a mere meter from the water surface. By now the tribute from the hills had also entered the water, though Marten still did not know who he was, because of some grass and reed camouflage the other was wearing.

Audible waves rolled to the shores as the ship dipped into the water and Marten could easily hear all four tributes splashing in an attempt to be the first to reach the ship. He tried to ignore all thoughts of the water bottle waiting there for him, as he broke out into an open run. He had to reach a favourable spot before the inevitable battle was over. Indeed by now he could hear the first sounds of a fight. Someone called out "Maarck, get out of here!" followed by someone – Maarck? – jumping into the water. More fighting sounds, a yelp and another big splash telling of a body hitting the water. But no cannon. So the tribute was obviously still alive. Facing the lake, Marten saw one tribute dog paddling towards the shore as fast as he could, while Abelia stood on the deck of the small sailing ship and aimed a light spear at the disappearing tribute. Meanwhile another tribute, the oddly camouflaged one, had worked his way up onto the deck. Just as Abelia threw the spear, he gave her a mighty shove and actually propelled her off the deck and into the lake. Not stopping to see if she was getting back to the surface, much less to the ship, he snatched a large pack and headed back to where he had come from.

Seconds later Abelia's spear had found its target as a cannon told of the death of another tribute. But where was the fourth tribute? Marten didn't know, however he knew that the tribute he was after was already heading back to the shore. Hoping that luck was on his side for once, Marten, who was still about a quarter circumference of the lake away from the boy, gathered his strength and forced himself to run as fast as he could. If only the other boy did not see him before he had gotten a good deal closer, he prayed as he covered as much ground as he could in the remaining seconds.

He was yet out of range of his throwing weapons when the other tribute reached the shore and realized that he was about to become hunted. A moment of indecision registering on his face, the boy, too, broke out into a run. But the pack and his camouflage slowed him down.

As he got closer, Marten saw more of the details of the camouflage the boy had fashioned, and realized it was more like protective padding. He had to salute to the ingenuity of the idea, which meant he would forego the idea of using a throwing knife to fell the other tribute, but he also knew it was only a matter of minutes if not seconds before he had caught up with the other. The chase was on.

And it was over. Raising his sword, he looked down in the fearful eyes of the tribute he now recognized as the boy from District 5. It was the last thing he saw as just then something sharp entered his neck forcefully, causing him to stumble forward, bringing down his sword with the same movement. The hunter had become the prey, as Abelia stood triumphant yet with a sober mien behind him.

* * *

 _Madeline Parker, D11, 18Y_

Three tributes were dead. Only three remained. Maddy sat in her makeshift shelter and cried hot tears.

When she had lost Cassiopeia, Maddy had packed up their camp, taking with her the things she considered useful. She had even remembered to take the extra belt from her ally's dead body, though she refrained from taking the socks. After these many days wearing the clothes nonstop the socks would be so dirty that they ensured an infection more than they helped with dressing any wound.

Then she had moved on, not wanting to risk that the murdering tribute from District 1 eventually returned for her. The loss of her spear was regrettable, but she could make do without it. The loss of her companion was much harder to bear, though deep down she knew that in the end the comparably swift death was kinder to Cassiopeia than suffering for days before dying from either starvation or the head injuries.

At this point, Maddy only longed for these games to end. And yet she could not bring herself to do the obvious and place herself in the marked path of danger. She knew a lot of people, even back home, would attribute it to the arena finally having gotten to her, that she had snapped and not been herself. But her family would know better. The Parkers were made of sterner stuff. She was made of sterner stuff. So no easy and obvious suicidal move, even if it would end the games for her.

She had spotted another small river to her right, so had wandered in that direction. As she approached the banks, a bird flew up. Instinctively her hand went for her spear, but it was no longer there. She grumbled and stared at the disappearing bird with a disgruntled look. If only she had her spear... then she wouldn't have to worry about food today. The thought of some roasted meat was salivating. Instead she would have to make do with some meagre plants.

Apparently the interview with her family had gone well, because her mentors supplemented her fare with some sponsored food. A cannon rang through the arena. They were down to six tributes and time dragged on, reminding Maddy of everything she had lost. Her family, her chance for happiness, her companion... She was getting downright depressed. Not a good sign. And not the mood she had to portray to the world. So she forced the sad thoughts down as she learned of the girl from District 4's death, instead focussing on the positive ones. Her sister was alive and so would be her nephew or niece. Griffin was still alive. A small smile graced her face as she recalled their last encounter. Yes, there had been something there in his eyes, the way he looked at her... the way he had let her escape with Cassiopeia.

The Feast was announced. Maddy wondered what the gamemakers considered something she desperately needed or wanted. She couldn't think of anything. Yes, there were a lot of things that would be nice to have, including a new spear, but in the end none of these were strictly necessary. And so she decided not to go to the Feast. She couldn't really justify it.

Now though, as the cannons' echo slowly faded, she regretted that decision. The Feast would have been her one chance to become embroiled in a fight and lose. The chance to die without anyone suspecting anything. She could have gone, because who knew what the gamemakers had selected as gift for her? Maybe it would have been an ultimate weapon, whatever that would have looked like? Everyone would have understood that she had braced the fight for that weapon, once some other lucky tribute revealed what had been in store for her. A weapon ensuring she could come out of these games as victor and return home to her supposed fiancé and sister. She could have gone.

Memories of the 64th Hunger Games came to her mind. The games had been special in that a tribute had won who had not killed any other tribute. The boy from District 5 had simply outlived everyone else. He had been trapped under some stones after falling victim to a serious debris avalanche and everyone had assumed he would die of dehydration very soon. But the very stones that had trapped him had also shielded him from the worst of the sun while keeping him also from expending costly energy. And he had been stubborn, sucking the nightly dew from a blanket he had managed to hold on to. Yes, he had been in a critical condition by the time the remaining two tributes killed each other in the fight at their Feast, but he had outlived them. What if that was to be her fate? What if she, by missing that one fight, had destined herself to outlive the girl from District 2 and Griffin?

Maddy felt panic rising up in her. To outlive everyone... to be crowned victor... She couldn't let that happen! She couldn't...

Harsh breaths forced their way out of her throat while her heart beat in an unsteady yet hectic rhythm. She couldn't...

She should have gone to the Feast. What if she had missed her one chance to die? She couldn't...

Her breathing became increasingly rapid. Everything around her became blurry as she continued to spiral down on her path of panic. Dizziness claimed her and she fell to her side. Instinctively she curled up tightly.

Seconds passed and stretched into minutes. Only slowly her breathing calmed as in her current position her lungs allowed only very little new air to enter.

As the dizziness finally subsided, Maddy forced herself to take slow and deliberate breaths. No matter how much she hated her situation which had brought on the panic attack, she hated the feeling of said panic attack much more, so she would strive hard not to let it occur again. She was stronger than that. She would find a way to deal with the situation and achieve what she had decided to all those days – or were it by now weeks? – ago, when she had switched places with Mary.

She would die. She would manage to die without arousing suspicion.

She forced herself to recall other Hunger Games. If the 64th games had had her panic, then maybe the other games held the solution to her current dilemma. And indeed it did not take her long to see what she had to do. The Feast rarely was the last fight in the games. Usually enough tributes survived the Feast to allow the gamemakers to also use their beloved muttations to herd those remaining tributes back together for the ultimate fight. And as this arena had been noticeably devoid of any genetically altered creatures, the gamemakers would be almost frantically looking forward to using some muttations. As such, all Maddy had to do was make sure that she was one of those tributes being herded back together.

Maybe... maybe if she made it look as if she was actively hunting for the two remaining tributes, the gamemakers would decide to herd Griffin and the girl from District 2 in her direction and thereby ensure her participation in the fight? She could even go all out and let the audience know that now, that there were only two people between herself and victory she would try to take care of them. Surely, two tributes were manageable as opposed to the initial twenty-three, right? And she would begin by trekking back to the lake and see if she could find any trace of either of them to follow. Recalling a bit of ancient history, Maddy smiled as she got up and walked to the nearby brook. There, she dipped her hand into the water and scooped up a large hand of muddy sand. Using two fingers, she then proceeded to draw lines similar to the war paintings of old on her face. The sand and salt would soon be all dry and itchy, but it got the message across to the audience loud and clear. She was not prey, she was a predator. Though with a bigger prey in mind than anyone could think of: Fooling the Capitol, fooling all of Panem.

* * *

 _Harpax Grant, D5_

Finally he was done with his duty for the day. It had been a long day, made all the harder by the fact that right before his first patrol Evan had died. Harpax fully intended to honour the promise he had given him at the Reaping, he felt he owed it to the boy. But it didn't mean it was any easier for him. He was a Peacekeeper, there to protect people, not to kill them. However, what if killing them meant protecting them? As a Peacekeeper, who would only be stationed in a district for a couple of years, he had never bothered much to listen to the local gossip. Now though, he had paid attention to what was being said and knew that Evan had been spot on. Mrs. Harris would suffer and the neighbours would delight in it. Not outwardly and not openly maliciously, but yes, the delight would be there.

And so, with dusk setting in, Harpax made his way to the crooked street that housed the Harris' home. As he approached the humble abode, he was surprised to see movement inside. Immediately he was alert. Was somebody already harassing the old woman? He hurried to the door only to find it being opened just then. Mrs. Quinn, the district's apothecary and mother of this year's girl tribute, stepped out of the house. She looked up at him in surprise.

Suddenly feeling the need to explain himself, he blurted out: "Evan asked me to come here. To see to it that she does not suffer... "

Understanding dawned on the apothecary's face. "She had hoped... we had hoped, but she all the more so. Justly so, as Evan stood a real chance... All the time she was so strong. Today though, she was devastated and restless. So much so that eventually I had to give her a strong calming draft..."

Harpax nodded. It would be easier this way. The old lady would hardly notice anything.

As he entered the house though, two accepting eyes and a weak smile greeted him, inviting him, letting him know that she was aware enough and welcomed what was awaiting her.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3

Tybor Rejewski, D3 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Haden Steinmetz, D9 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Alicia Quinn, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Coralee Lume, D7 – killed by Madeline Parker, D11

Chalen Nimara, D8 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Connor Tobin, D4 – killed by Evan Harris, D5

Cassiopeia Jansen, D6 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Rufa Coley, D4 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Maarck Wijngaard, D10 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Marten Cooper, D1 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Evan Harris, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1


	37. Chapter 34 - Arena: Three

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Chapter 34: The arena – Three**

 _Claudius Templesmith_

Claudius watched with bated breath as the girl from District 11 came to a conclusion. He could barely refrain from whooping with joy and relief when he saw her draw the distinctive lines on her face that showed that she would be going on the warpath. When she had kept away from the Feast, fear had crept up on him. After all, he had been the one to suggest the Feast to be held comparatively early. Three injured tributes and another one lacking the essential water bottle made for a good cause. The growing paranoia of the fifth tribute had worked out wonderfully for their plans. The girl from District 11 however...

The President absolutely disliked Feasts in the games. He wanted the districts to suffer through the tributes. As such he accepted them only barely, but insisted that they only be held at a point were all tributes would come and a good fight was guaranteed, unless the missing tribute was already dying anyway. This year's Feast had had some good fights. The girl from District 2 had certainly known how to take out some competition. But the missing tribute... it could just as well have cost Gaius his head should the President decide so and maybe even his own should Gaius mention Claudius' involvement in the Feast. The whole day he had sat in the director's hub, fearing that any moment a messenger would burst through the door, delivering an 'invitation' from the most powerful man of Panem. Now though, with the girl from District 11 showing that she would join the action, they were safe again. After all, the Feast had triggered that action.

And also the latest figures from the sponsor hotlines showed that the audience was well satisfied with the entertainment of the games. This was not to be discounted, as of course the state received its share in form of certain taxes and the President likewise enjoyed the monetary power this gave him. Yes, there were only three tributes left, but they presented a nice mix of thoughtfulness, ruthlessness and resourcefulness to ensure that everyone in the Capitol found one to back with at least one call, even though the games were inevitably winding towards the end. If asked, Claudius would not have been able to predict the winner out of these three. As such, watching the live feeds kept interesting.

* * *

 _Griffin Doyle, D6, 18Y_

Maarck was dead. It was hard to fathom that his friend was dead. They had made it so far together. They had figured out where to be for the Feast. They had boarded the ship, and there, in two small satchels, each bearing their district's number, had they found the cure to whatever was impairing them. But they had not been the only ones to figure out that the Feast would arrive on the lake rather than the shore. And of course the girl from District 2 had also boarded the ship. Yes, her breathing had been laboured, but altogether she had looked better than Griffin felt they did. Their only chance had been to head in different directions and make it impossible for her to target them both. So he had shouted for Maarck to get off the ship and then took the other direction. Even though the water made it difficult and Griffin was not a good swimmer to begin with he forced his head below the surface to stay out of sight. Knowing he could not stay under water for long, he made the split decision to stay as close as possible to the ship, figuring that the curved hull of the ship would give him additional cover from the girl from District 2. And if he paid close enough attention, he could even make out which side she would eventually get off the ship and ensure that he was on the other side, out of sight. Forcing himself even deeper under the water, he managed to duck underneath the ship and come up on the side the girl would not expect him, the side, Maarck had escaped to. Catching his breath as silently as he could, he waited.

The ship swayed slightly, but Griffin couldn't see the girl getting off board. He figured that yet another tribute had crossed the water to get his gift from the gamemakers. He strained his neck to catch a glimpse of the tribute, hoping deep down that it was Mary. He wanted to see her again, if only to be assured that she was really alive and well. But from his position he had no view of the deck. Then, two things happened almost simultaneously. A cannon sounded and a splash dangerously close to him could be heard. Were the cannon and the splash related? Had one of the tributes on deck been killed and dumped into the water? No, it was too dangerous to wait and see if just a floating body came up. Griffin dived again and managed to duck under the ship once more. It was the right decision as he heard a soft paddling noise, telling him that whoever had been thrown off the ship had not been killed but was now swimming away from him, towards the shore. Griffin allowed himself a small breath of relief, figuring that now he only had to wait for the departure of one more tribute, before he could attempt his own escape.

The ship swayed again, leaning to the side where Griffin was and for the third time he made his escape towards the other side. He felt himself getting tired by the accustomed exercise, as well as the lack of proper nourishment. His eyes were burning like mad despite the fact that he had always closed them when underwater and he could only hope that whatever medicine the gamemakers had packed for him also helped with that problem. His vision was slightly blurry and he had to resist the temptation to rub his eyes, knowing he would only worsen their state. Just then he saw a hovercraft descend from the sky and retrieve a limping wet body from the water. His heart clenched as he recognized the body as Maarck's.

Meanwhile the other tribute had gotten off the ship and was also paddling away from it. So only Griffin remained with the Feast. Should he try and enter the deck again to see if anything was left over? But no, most likely either of the other two tributes had already picked up the gifts meant for the two tributes, who had not shown up. And to be sure, just as he was contemplating his next move, Griffin felt the ship starting to move, the low hum and the soft vibration of a motor being restarted. Seconds later the ship began to move upwards, back into the sky from where it had come. Knowing that any cover he had gotten from the ship was about to vanish, Griffin hoped with all his might that all other tributes were already at a healthy distance from the lake so that he could make it to the shore alive.

Luck was on his side and he got out of the lake not too far from where Maarck and he had entered the water what by now seemed an eternity ago. Griffin was dead tired and a strange hollowness had settled in his stomach that was not connected to hunger, but he knew he could not rest. Not yet. First he had to retrieve their things which they had hidden in a cluster of reeds about half an hour from the lake and then put a good distance between himself and the lake and any other tribute. Scanning the landscape ahead of him as best he could, he was glad to see no signs of the others.

He had almost reached the hidden backpacks when another two cannons echoed through the arena. Another two tributes had died. His breath hitched as he anxiously looked around. In the distance he could see a single figure standing over a heap which could only be the two dead bodies. Griffin broke into a run. He didn't want the other to spot him and come after him. He knew should the other tribute pursue him now he would be as good as dead. He needed some rest, he needed time to take the precious medicine, he needed to regain a bit of strength before being forced into the next confrontation if he wanted to stand the least chance of surviving that encounter.

Reaching the spot in the reeds, he barely stopped to sling both backpacks on his shoulders before continuing to run as long as his lungs allowed him. Then, glancing back, he was relieved to see nobody behind him, as he was forced to slow down. Apparently he had made it. Eventually he stopped and opened the satchel. It contained a small, water-tight container which in return contained two pills. Searching through his pack to retrieve the water bottle, Griffin swallowed the two pills. Now all he had to do was wait for these to work the promised miracle.

By the time he was back at the shelter Maarck and he had built it was already mid-afternoon, but Griffin was almost sure he no longer had a fever. His infected eye still hurt a bit, though the burning sting caused by the salt water was gone. He certainly hoped he would be even better after a filling dinner and a good night's sleep.

Neither of them had felt like checking their fish traps more than once these past few days, simply lacking the energy, but on this day, despite all that had occurred, Griffin made himself take a look at the small river. He knew he needed the food any caught fish would provide and with so few tributes left he felt he could even risk the fire this late in the day. Indeed, about half the traps contained at least one fish, so Griffin selected one he felt would make a good dinner and set to preparing it.

The Capitol medicine was really fantastic, he mused, considering how it had not only rid him of the fever, but also of the lethargy.

Sleep however proved to be harder to come by than food. As the sun went down, Griffin extinguished the fire and lay down to rest. Yet as the minutes dragged on, his thoughts went back to all those nights shared with his allies. A lone tear trickled down his cheek as he realized that he missed Coralee almost as much as Maarck. Previously he had thought of the girl more in terms of an ally than a friend, someone he deep down knew he would outlive. And so he had thought he had kept a healthy mental distance from her. Now though he knew better. She, too, had been a friend. Perhaps not as close a friend as Maarck, but a friend nonetheless, whose quirks he liked and insights he respected. That her death had only been easier to bear because he had still had Maarck. Together they had helped each other to go on, to postpone any grief. Now that he was on his own though, Griffin was not so sure if he would manage to do that again. And yet, the rational part of him told him he had to do exactly that if he wanted to have the time to grieve his friends to his heart's desire as else he would join them in death all too soon.

Midnight came and told him that aside from Maarck, the boys from District 1 and District 5 had died that day. He wondered how much time the gamemakers would grant them to recuperate before forcing them into a final confrontation.

* * *

 _Abelia Shale, D2, 18Y_

She was so close to getting home. Only two more tributes stood between her and the victor's crown. It was doable.

Abelia had been aware that the other boy, who had been in the lake, probably had been still close enough to hunt down after she had taken care of Marten, but her lungs were hurting like crazy. She had as of yet not taken the time to take the medicine and so she decided to let that one tribute escape. Besides, it would not do for her to take him down and expend the last of her strength on this, only to be ambushed by the remaining tribute, who had maybe laid in waiting, watching all of them carefully, ready to strike when the benefit was greatest. And which greater benefit than the victor's crown? No, it was better to wait, regain a bit of strength and then prepare for the final confrontation.

As such she had not taken any part of the armour from the boy from District 5; instead she had collected her hidden backpack and walked along one of the rivers that came from the west, feeling most familiar with that part of the arena, gamemaker traps included. Once she could no longer see the lake, she decided to set up a temporary camp. By now her breathing had an unhealthy, uneven rattle to it. Yet she wanted to set up camp first, as she didn't know if the medicine came with any side effects. It wouldn't do to take the medicine only to discover that it made her drowsy and had her eventually fall asleep before she had set up a shelter to protect her from the sun which was still rather high up in the sky. Of course, Abelia didn't really expect this particular side effect, as it would have given other tributes an advantage over her and the gamemakers had to take into consideration that she might have taken the medicine as soon as possible, but she had learned too much about survival to now discount any possibility. And first aid had after all included a lesson on medicines and side effects and how to watch for symptoms of such.

Her satchel contained a dark bottle of thick glass with an oddly shaped plastic screw cap. Opening the bottle and sniffing at the content, Abelia found a syrup-like substance in there. Her mind recalled the little girl from District 9 and how she had told Caesar Flickerman that she had been promised some syrup for the first day in the arena. Was this maybe the same substance? It would soothe her throat, but not completely heal it. Most likely any medicine handed out in the arena was only a temporary fix with proper treatment available exclusively to the victor back at the Capitol. After all, why waste resources on tributes that didn't make it in the end? Yet, judging by the bottle, Abelia figured that she had been given enough of the syrup to last her the remaining days of the games, since the cap appeared to be intended for measuring out a daily dose. And there could be no more than five days. Even five days was already stretching things as it would mean that the audience would face four days of boredom with chances for fights being really low. So no more than three days was more realistic. Three days and she would be heading home!

Strange enough the next day nothing happened. Deep down she had expected that the gamemakers to force them into action again, as days of inaction were boring to the audience. Still, she was grateful for the reprieve. After all, unlike the girl from District 9, her respiratory system was still able to heal, so time and rest was the best medicine. More than a day of rest however they were not granted.

Abelia woke with a start as a detonation of so far unheard dimension echoed through the early morning. It was not a tribute's cannon, nor did it resemble the explosion they had learned told of a wreck being blown up. And yet, as she looked around, Abelia could see dust clouds rising up in various directions. Could it be...? Her eyes widened. Could it be that the gamemakers had blown up every ship wreck? Including the Cornucopia? It would explain the noise and the dust clouds, especially as the latter were stationary and not the chasing dust devils she had encountered a few days ago, when she had strayed too close to the edge of the arena.

So it had begun... The explosion clearly signalled that the gamemakers had decided that these games were to come to an end. But where to head? Which location had they chosen for the final fight? The Cornucopia was out as most likely it had just recently been blown up, which left the lake as only logical place, however the shoreline was rather long... The gamemakers had to have something else in place to get them together on the shore. Abelia didn't like the taste this thought left in her mind. If that was the plan, then she had better get to the lake first and ensure that the other two tributes were chased towards her as opposed to her being chased towards them. So she had better start moving.

Abelia got up and started to pack up her things. Halfway through stowing stuff in her backpack, she stopped, looked down at her pile of things and started to laugh. Why was she packing? This was to be the final fight; she wouldn't need the things afterwards. No need to burden herself with anything other than her weapons and maybe her bottle of water in case the others had a longer way to the lake. Still, it was hard to leave all her things behind unprotected and in an untidy heap. It went against her training as well as her experiences in the arena.

What if her conclusions were wrong and she needed to come back, only to find that in the meantime the gamemakers had made the small rivers swell and the flood carried her things away or at least spoiled them?

As these thoughts warred in her mind, Abelia became more and more aware that time was ticking. Eventually she just grabbed her knives as well as her bottle and started towards the lake.

She could already see the glittering of the large water body, when suddenly there were ominous sharp cries in the air. First one, then a second answering, and within mere seconds, the air seemed to be filled with these cries. Abelia had never heard such sounds, but they sounded fear instilling nevertheless. Risking a glance back over her shoulder, she could see the sky filled with white-feathered birds. At first she wanted to dismiss them as mere birds, but the avian cloud seemed to be following her, driving her on as the cries got louder. Abelia risked another glance and this time got the distinct impression of a white menace closing in on her. Eyes widening as she realized that these were not mere birds – sea gulls, she now recalled from some school lesson on endemic birds of Panem – but genetically altered versions. And as these were the gamemakers' edition of genetically altered birds, Abelia didn't dare linger on all the potential dangers these birds could mean to her for fear of her mind taking up too much energy and slowing down her body. Because by now she was running at full speed towards the lake. More and more birds joined the flock hunting her, but to her dismay, even more circled above the water.

No, wait, not above the water, but around someone else standing close to the water. So she had not been the only one urged on by these muttations. This meant she still had a chance, Abelia realized. With the appearance of the birds she had feared that she had puzzled too long over the question of whether or not to at least pack her things and as a consequence was the lone tribute to suffer the wrath of the gamemakers. But no, she was still the good little tribute, playing the game by its makers' book. She still had a chance. She urged her legs on to carry her faster towards the lake, but also towards the figure already surrounded by the birds. Just then, the first of her hunting flock darted down and its sharp beak snapped at her neck like it normally would at a fish. Abelia yelped as the pain from the bite shot through her body, but didn't stop. She knew that more birds would follow.

Ahead of her she could now see the boy from District 6 waving around a long stick, batting with it at the birds. The air was filled with angry cries, telling everyone that he was actually successful at hitting some of them.

Abelia felt her clothes on her back shred, as the birds kept attacking her. She raised her arms to protect her eyes as she raced on, even though it limited her view. Step by step she got closer to the other tribute. All she had to do was raise her weapon at the right moment and kill him, then it was only the girl from District 11 and the dreaded birds would disappear.

Unseen by her, the boy from District 6 had noticed her approaching and had, in return, decided to start moving again. As such she didn't see him so close to the spot she reached next, till it was too late. Whether he was aiming at her or the birds, Abelia never knew. The iron rod hit her temple, just as she was spotting the girl from District 11 come up from behind the boy, and she was immediately knocked unconscious, dropping to the ground. The birds though still kept on attacking her, mauling her already battered body. She never felt her own knife being taken from her, much less enter her body, ending her suffering.

* * *

 _Madeline Parker, D11, 18Y_

Appearing to hunt down tributes without really killing anyone was rather easy when one did not encounter any tribute.

Sometime the next morning after decorating her face with the war paint, Maddy had reached the lake, having waited till the next dawn to set out. Slowly she wandered around the lake, looking for a trace of either tribute. Once or twice she thought she might have found one, but walking away from the lake saw her lose the trace latest after a few hundred meters. Most likely there were still tons of traces, but she wasn't a trained hunter, so didn't know how to detect the subtle signs left on this ground. She needed more obvious traces.

It was half way around the lake that she found such a trace. She was once more on the hilly side of the lake and there was still a visible line of trampled and broken reed grass. Following that trail, she soon came upon a spot which sported a large stain of blood on the ground. She had found one of the sites where a death had occurred the previous day. But in which direction had the triumphant tribute disappeared? To her the hills were the most obvious choice. They provided natural protection, and indeed as she walked further on, she found more and more traces, showing her that at least at some recent point a tribute had walked around here in a kind of frequent manner. So maybe she didn't even have to wait till the ultimate fight... Whichever tribute she encountered here she was bound to fight, and a fight meant a chance to show that she had tried – and unfortunately lost. By now Maddy felt pretty fatalistic about her situation. Yes, she had known from the very beginning that she would die in the arena, but somehow it had not felt real till the actual launch. And then she hadn't been able to die immediately. But the longer she survived in the arena, the harder it got to fight against the instinct that told her that she had the abilities to make it through yet another day. And another. And another. Till she actually was the lone survivor. The very thing she had to prevent.

But fighting against herself had proven quite difficult as she had learned, resulting ultimately in a panic attack. That attack more than anything had helped her to find the resolve she had lacked previously to seek out death. Not only did she want to prevent ever experiencing that feeling again, it had also shown her the priority of her goals. The way her subconscious had impressed upon her the need to die had told her that she had the strength to overcome the survival-instinct. She could do it. And maybe she would even get the chance to prove this to herself today.

Much to her dismay however, when she eventually found the surprisingly well-disguised hide-out, it was empty. Just to make sure that the tribute wasn't just down by the watercourse or gathering plants or lying in wait for her, Maddy carefully searched the surroundings, yet still came up empty-handed. A feeling of frustration threatened to overcome her, but she quickly quelled it. There had been no death that day, so she hadn't missed an opportunity, so that was actually okay with her. She had also shown the audience that she was trying her best to track down the other tributes. After all, she had found that hide-out. And since it was getting late in the day, she decided to stay in that shelter.

The next morning she woke to the sound of a very loud explosion, louder than any before. Stumbling out of the hide-out and scaling the nearest hill, Maddy looked around. Dust rose up in several directions. Whatever it was, it didn't sound good. And what if it wasn't the only explosion to expect? What if it was more of a warning? What if the gamemakers were going to collapse those very hills? Maddy wasn't about to put anything past the gamemakers at this stage of the games. After all, they had already presented the tributes gifts by means of the Feast, so now they would sooner or later spring some traps to corral the remaining three together.

With these thoughts, Maddy gathered together her things and made her way once more back to the lake. It was after all the most prominent feature of the arena. And by skirting the hills, despite it being a slightly longer route, she was sure she could put enough distance between herself and the hills should the gamemakers opt for the collapse. Because in the end, she wanted to die in a fight and not in a stupid landscape trap.

Then the birds appeared. Never before in the arena had Maddy so longed for a light spear, even though she knew it were simply too many birds to chase them away with a single spear she'd have to retrieve over and over again. More so, because these were obviously genetically altered birds, released by the gamemakers with the sole purpose of hunting her instead of the other way round.

She broke out into a run, yet she could feel those birds closing in on her. However, she had one thing working in her favour: She had a good knowledge on general bird behaviour, so knew how to keep them at bay even without a suitable weapon. And she doubted the Capitol laboratories could alter the genetically make-up of animals so much as to have them ignore all instincts. Snatching her extra jacket from her pack she proceeded to wave it above her head, slapping it in the general direction of her avian attackers. And not a moment too soon as the angry cries from the birds let her know.

The lake glittered ahead of her and aside from the pile of rubble that once was the Cornucopia, she could see another two bird clouds chasing tributes towards the water. Her heart beat louder in her chest as Maddy realized that this was it. This would be the final confrontation – and she had not missed it.

Increasing her speed, she veered to the East as this seemed the shortest way around the lake to the point where she could see just now Griffin arrive. He was swinging a rod of some kind frantically to keep the birds away. Despite the situation, a small smile crept over Maddy's face as she realized how similar they were in that they both had found away to stave off the worst of the attack. The girl from District 2, it seemed, had not as much luck.

Still running, Maddy saw with shock, dismay, and growing determination Griffin's rod strike the other girl. Whether it was by accident or on purpose, she couldn't tell and frankly, she didn't care. These were the Hunger Games after all and the girl would not have hesitated to kill Griffin, had the positions been reversed. Using the girl's own weapon, Maddy was pleased to see that Griffin was ending her life quickly. It told her that the arena had not gotten the better of him, that he was still the same person, more or less, whom she had fallen for all those days ago in training.

Giving her determination the upper hand, Maddy let go off her jacket and pulled out the knife she had found in that lone backpack in the Cornucopia after Cassiopeia had been hit at the head. Rushing forward, she shouted to catch Griffin's attention. And just as she had planned, he turned around. His eyes widened and she detected a sliver of fear in his look as he spotted the knife.

Throwing herself at him, she turned the knife at the last moment so that the sharp tip now faced her, though this fact was concealed from the cameras' view. Looking up into his eyes with as much longing as she could, she leaned forward, twisting the knife home. "Someday," she whispered, "you'll understand."

Maddy could see the shock in his eyes as he realized what she had done, but she was glad. Glad that her final fight, though one could hardly call it that, had been with Griffin. That he was the last thing on Earth she would see.

"Mary!" he called hoarsely, though Maddy was relieved to hear that his shock had stolen volume from his voice. As such it could be as much interpreted as regret as actual shock and her deed a secret still.

She felt that he laid her down slowly, kneeling beside her. "Mary!" he whispered over and over again. "Oh Mary!"

The last thing she felt was his lips on hers as she slipped into blessed unconsciousness, never to wake up again.

* * *

 _Griffin Doyle, D6, 18Y_

"And the winner of the 67th Hunger Games is Griffin Doyle!" The cheerful voice of Claudius Templesmith felt at the same time right and wrong. Wrong in that he was cheerful when close to Griffin were two dead bodies, the last of twenty-three to die in that arena. And right, because he was going home and that certainly was something to be cheerful about. Griffin felt utterly torn between grief, elation and exhaustion as the hover craft appeared above him and the ladder was dropped. Clutching one rung, Griffin allowed himself to be pulled up, glad that the ladder paralyzed him as else the exhaustion would have won at that moment. And dropping down from halfway up to the hover craft would have been unpleasant at least.

Inside the hover craft, he was instantly offered a ridiculously sweet thick fruit juice. Griffin had to consciously remind him that the games were over to keep himself from jerking back or attacking the person offering the drink. It was after all just juice. The games were over. No more danger.

He slowly sipped the beverage, knowing it was meant to give him back some energy immediately. The exhaustion though remained. A doctor appeared. Seeing Griffin awake he asked: "How are you?"

Griffin stared at the man blankly. Didn't he already know what he had been through? What injuries he had or not? He was instantly annoyed with the man. "What do you think?" he blurted out.

The man simply chuckled. "Vocal chords intact, that's good."

"Sense of humour – not so much!" Griffin added pointedly, hoping to shut the man up. Really, the last thing he wanted right now was someone making light-hearted small-talk or ask useless questions.

"I beg to differ, but I get the hint," the doctor answered. "According to my files you have no severe injuries that require immediate attention, much less sedation," he stated. "Unless we missed something during the last few seconds of the games."

Griffin shook his head. Other than being exhausted, malnourished and the problem with his eye, which still hurt a bit, he was rather fine. And despite all things, it was good to hear that whatever the problem with his eye was, it was not too severe. His eyelids drooped and he drifted off into a deep sleep.

He woke with a start and immediately groped around for his staff, eyes wildly darting from one side of the room to the other as if expecting either another tribute or a flock of mad seagulls to attack him.

"Easy there, Griffin," a voice said to his left. Griffin knew the voice, though he had troubles placing it. He did however recognize that he was no longer in the hover craft but some medical facility. Yet he did not know if it was a good thing he knew the voice. Griffin shook his head lightly. No, that was wrong. It was a good thing he knew the voice. He had never gotten to really know the voices of those who had been his enemies in the arena. His arms stilled and his heartbeat calmed. He focussed his gaze upon the speaker and found it to be Pancratius Serva, the escort.

"That's better," the man said with a smile. "I'm glad you made it back to us. Really glad."

His words echoed in Griffin's mind and he couldn't help but remember how many people would say those very same words or something similar to him in the upcoming days, and how many people would be denied those words. The mentors and escorts of all those that had died... their families, their friends... who all had hoped to be in Pancratius' place right now. Mary... she had had a twin sister... Maarck... Tears slipped down his cheek and he lifted his hand to brush them away.

Startled he felt a thick bandage covering his one eye, the bad eye. Thoughts of grief fled as he gasped in a slightly panicked voice: "What... what happened... my eye?"

"Was damaged beyond repair," Pancratius said calmly.

"But I could still see with it!" Griffin exclaimed, horror engulfing him.

The escort nodded. "Yes, however the nerve was infected. The medicine you got from the feast stopped the infection from spreading, but any damage done to the nerve till then was irreversible. Same for any skin or other part of your body that was affected by the infection. Which in your case meant your eyeball, particularly something called the cornea. Had your nerve been in a better condition, they could have tried for an artificial cornea, but as it was, the total damage would have only given you a constant headache," Pancratius explained.

It was then that Griffin noticed for the first time that indeed the lingering headache that had accompanied him over the last few days of the games was gone. However, had he noticed it earlier he would most likely have attributed the lack of it to the medication.

"They will be fitting you with an artificial eye. You won't be able to see with it, but it will move along with your other eye as the muscles in the socket are still intact enough for that," Pancratius went on. "People will not even notice. That is unless you choose to go for an eye that is a completely different colour than you other one." He grimaced slightly. Obviously, despite being an escort and as such a fashion addict to a certain degree, he eschewed things that looked too bizarre.

Griffin merely nodded. He had never thought himself vain, but he found it hard to stomach that he had lost his eye. That Maarck would have lost his hand and maybe part of his arm had he survived. Because the medicine had only been a stop-gap. As the feeling of loss became overwhelming, Griffin readily let sleep claim him once again.

Days passed and he was able to stay awake for longer as he got stronger. He was able to stomach solid food and though he felt guilty at times when thinking about his friends, who would never again taste such dishes, he enjoyed every bite of it.

Pancratius visited him every day, Farouk and Mya not once. But Griffin was okay with this. He would not have known what to make of them, had they come to see him. As such, at least one thing in his life fitted the black-and-white-theme, allowing him to openly acknowledge that whichever tiny amount of respect he might have had for them for having lived through their games before was now shattered. He had after all lived through his own games now, yet for all the scars he had, visible and invisible, he could not imagine ever turning to drugs. It would deride the memory of those he had come to care for in the arena, those he had had to leave behind. He was the only one left to tell their story and drugs certainly weren't good listeners.

Everything else though, seemed rather grey. With his upbringing, Griffin was able to see both sides of the coin, the good and the bad, and he knew he was becoming rather philosophical about things when he asked himself if he did not enjoy the mere feeling of being alive more because he had encountered death in such a harsh way. That he cherished what he had more because of what he had lost. That he saw certain things clearer because of the artificial eye. That he paid more attention to his surroundings because the arena had taught him that, but it also made him detect more beautiful things than he might have otherwise noticed.

How he longed to get home and discuss all this with Moses. His father surely would be able to make him understand these new thoughts, where, left to himself, Griffin was often close to tying his brain in knots.

At least this new philosophy helped him through the recaps of the games during the victory ceremony. He was able to admire Abelia's skills for all that she was a deadly tribute and had killed Maarck. He was able to smile at the fun the two fourteen-year-old boys had had, even though he had killed one of them in the end. He was able to delight at the compassion apparent in tributes such as the boy from District 5 – Evan, and the girl from District 8 – Chalen, after the explosion had injured their allies, but also in Mary as she cared for Cassiopeia. Mary...

"Tell us about that last fight," Caesar interrupted his thoughts. "It seemed for a while that there was something special going on between you and that girl, yet in the end..."

The screen showed the scene where he had laid her down and kissed her goodbye as she was dying. Griffin closed his eyes for a moment. Mary... he might have never met her but for the games. "She was special, never doubt that," he said, turning his attention towards Caesar. "But in the end... some things are just not meant to be." Could he have killed her had she not turned the knife on herself, something that was not visible on the screen? Did anyone here know that he had not killed her? Apparently not, as none of Caesar's questions took that direction. And maybe this was one of the things meant to be that way. Whatever Mary's reasons had been... Someday you'll understand, she had said. Griffin wondered when that might be. Yet he already understood that his life was richer for having known her. And Maarck. And Coralee.

It was this particular sequence of thoughts that made him remain impassive as the President informed him later that evening at the party of what was expected of him, though there was part of him that longed to smash the champagne flute and use the jagged stem as dagger to the man's throat. How dare this man... how dare he corrupt an already unbearable system even further? Thankfully the President was in high demand and as such had no more than a few moments to spare on this matter before he moved to the next group of people.

"You are taking it better than I did," a voice suddenly said beside Griffin and when he turned, he noticed Finnick Odair standing there. "Cheer up though. It's only a couple of days a year. At least that's what I'm telling myself. And most of the Capitolites are not that bad. Exhausting? Yes. Annoying? Certainly so. But deep down, they are also just people." He flashed Griffin one of the charming grins that had won him sponsors two years ago and now made a lot of the women close by blush and smile in return.

Just people... The words echoed through Griffin's mind while he watched Finnick weave his way through the crowd. A woman stopped by his side. Griffin noticed the rose pinned to her dress and knew who she was.

Just people... "Good evening," he said in what he hoped was a neutral, yet polite tone.

"Good evening," she returned with a smile, but when she caught sight of his face, her smile faltered and she looked slightly irritated. "I thought they had fitted you with an artificial eye..."

Griffin felt close to smirking at the remark aiming at the eye patch he was wearing, but the awkwardness of the situation ultimately prevented it, though he was willing to share his reason for his choice of accessory. "Oh yes, they did. And they did a fantastic job about it. But it did not feel right to hide my scars from the arena in such a way. After all they show that I'm a survivor. And my stylist assured me that I have a rather handsome roguish appearance this way. I might even set a fashion trend, in which case I might expect a shipment with new eye patches from my stylist every month. You are not by chance working for the fashion industry, are you?" Griffin asked with an attempt at humour.

"No, I'm a gamemaker," was the reply.

This startled him. "Do gamemakers usually try for such a night?" he couldn't help but ask.

She laughed lightly and shook her head. "No. But I had always been curious. And as you won on my birthday my colleagues thought it a fitting present."

"Then... a happy belated birthday." Griffin actually managed to smile. She was nice, in her own way. And apparently, like him, a bit uncomfortable about the situation. After all, she was one of the very people who had made him live through the nightmares of the arena. Who was maybe even responsible for the loss of his eye. But she was also one, who had made it possible for him to meet some very special people, which, Griffin decided, he just had to let her know. "And thank you...?" he added therefore, looking at her, asking for her name.

"Cassandra."

"Thank you Cassandra."

* * *

 _Gertrude Spar, D2_

"You'll be in so much trouble when they find out," Anya whispered anxiously as Gertrude slipped through the small window into the storage room that held the local Peacekeeper garrison's weapons.

"What for?" Donny next to her asked as he positioned himself to receive whichever items Gertrude found convenient to nick. "For missing the victor's ceremony broadcast or for stealing?"

"Both!" Anya hissed.

From the inside of the room, they heard a small chuckle. "Actually, I'll not even be suspected as thief. Because who in their right mind would think that a mentor's pet was a secret rebel?" Though only fifteen, Gertrude knew that her path would be different from that of her sister, even though Ophelia unknowingly had given her an edge in achieving her very own goals. She was not deluded by the relative peace and prosperity of her district, relative being the key word. Because how could there be peace when every year two young people were forced to fight for their lives und lost more often than they won? How could there be prosperity, when most of the goods generated in the district were claimed by the Capitol? Gertrude had been one year shy of Reaping Age, when she had realized that every other district must feel the same, if not even more so. And if so, surely there were those who were secretly working towards changing things. It had taken time, good observation skills and some cunning, but eventually she had found likeminded people, because of course she had been right. Even in District 2 there was a secret chapter of rebels. Rebels she was just now stealing weapons for.

"You? The next mentor's pet?" Donny said derisively. "Your best training subject is archery and even there you are only fifth in your year."

Gertrude shrugged unseen by her two friends. She knew her performance in training was anything but stellar. "Sure, my weapon skills could be better. But weapon skills are not everything." This was her secret weapon, handed to her by her mainstream, overachieving sister, when Ophelia had forced Abelia to reveal her strategy after the Reaping. 'Know what the mentor is looking for in a tribute.' Those had been Abelia's words, and while rather cryptic, Gertrude had had no problem to figure out their meaning during the ensuing Hunger Games. She had been certain that the tribute would actually display the very skills which had caused Lyme to pick her over Ophelia in the arena and she had been right. Others might have missed it, but Gertrude had noticed Abelia squirrel away her rations of trail mix for later while contenting herself with the edible plants gathered earlier. She had observed Marinus' gratefulness when Abelia had bandaged up his leg so that he could at least make his way back to the Cornucopia. And she had seen how other tributes had fared, who had neglected the most obvious of survival skills. Abelia would never have been caught without her water bottle like the boy from District 4 had. So survival skills were the key to attract the mentors' notice, or at least Lyme's. And then, all Gertrude had to do was to be a marginally less promising tribute candidate than someone else, so that she would not be chosen as volunteer. She would be walking a fine line with this, but then again she had kept her rebellious part from her family for a good four years now. She would also manage to do that, and take Abelia's strategy to the next level.

 **A/N:** And there you have it (except for a short epilogue that will be up next week). I hope you don't dislike my choice of victor too much, but even if so and as always, thanks for reading.

Dead tributes:

Tourmaline Rosenberg, D1 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Jace Swallow, D7 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Tracey Chios, D10 – killed by Marinus Bolen, D2

Rodi Kozen, D8 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Joseph Franks, D12 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Linley Johnson, D12 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Fancy Yeo, D3 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Kersia McKenna, D9 – killed by Rufa Coley, D4

Cory Hershel, D11 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Marinus Bolen, D2 – killed by Tybor Rejewski, D3

Tybor Rejewski, D3 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Haden Steinmetz, D9 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Alicia Quinn, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Coralee Lume, D7 – killed by Madeline Parker, D11

Chalen Nimara, D8 – killed by Connor Tobin, D4

Connor Tobin, D4 – killed by Evan Harris, D5

Cassiopeia Jansen, D6 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Rufa Coley, D4 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Maarck Wijngaard, D10 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Marten Cooper, D1 – killed by Abelia Shale, D2

Evan Harris, D5 – killed by Marten Cooper, D1

Abelia Shale, D2 – killed by Griffin Doyle, D6

Madeline Parker, D11 – killed by herself though attributed to Griffin Doyle, D6


	38. Epilogue

Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

 **Epilogue**

 _Capitol - Caesar Flickerman_

"Is it that time of year again?" Monica Flickerman asked when she saw her husband don that ridiculous wig and the old yet never-fading suit. Given how fast-lived the fashion industry at the Capitol was, this suit was rare quality work. Still, Monica did not particularly like it and was definitely glad that without it, but more so without the wig, nobody usually recognized her husband as the famous host in the streets. And after all, she had married the man all those years ago, not the host, and it was the man she wanted to go out with to have a nice dinner and not the host who would be mobbed by fans before the waiter had a chance to serve them the starters. Watching him now, she snuggled deeper into her cushions with a resigned mien.

Caesar nodded. "You know very well that it is the first day of the Hunger Games season and that it will be my job to guide the audience through all twelve districts. Much as your job will be to watch the history of Panem one too many times." He gave her a quick peck on the cheeks before picking up a lipstick that matched this year's colour of his wig. He always preferred to do his own makeup.

"Sometimes I wonder if you should not give up the job as host for the Hunger Games and instead focus on the food channel you have been dreaming of for so long," Monica said.

"Maybe next year," Caesar shrugged. "For this season it is too late. The arena is ready, as are the training facilities and the trains with the escorts have been sent out to the districts. If I were to quit now..." Neither needed to finish the sentence that quitting now would be similar to stepping in front of a driving bus. Besides they both knew that Caesar actually believed that within the given limits he was doing something good in trying to make all reaped tributes shine and thus secure them the most balanced chances at gaining sponsors and making it through the games. And he for sure believed that there was nobody who could do this part of the job as well as him. Therefore it would take more than a passing reluctance to make him quit.

A few hours later Caesar shook his shoulders to loosen them, tilted his head this way and that, looking around and preparing for the upcoming hours. The studio looked just the same as it did every year. There was his table, the glass of water and the camera. The guy operating it was someone else than previous year though, as the old one had had a household accident just last week that saw him being admitted to a hospital with several broken bones. It had been a frantic week as Caesar and the replacement had put in many rehearsals to make sure that the quality of the broadcast was just the same. They had practiced angles and lighting and filters on the camera, but in the end, Caesar was confident that they would deliver a good show. And who knew, the new guy might even become the permanent camera man, depending on today and also on the real reason for the previous camera man's accident. Because as always in the Capitol there were rumours that the accident had not been so much a matter of chance and ladder, but some carefully engineered incident.

The signal lamp lighted up and the show was on. Cheerful smile in place, Caesar looked into the camera.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to another season of spectacular bravery, perseverance and skills, welcome to the season of the 74th Hunger Games!"

The words might be the same every year, more or less, yet the games were not, and so Caesar tried his best to reflect this in his comments as he introduced the games, the districts and the escorts. But never had he anticipated that the very words 'spectacular bravery' would find their first echo in District 12.

"I volunteer!" An anguished cry delivered these words, seconds after Effie Trinket had announced the name of the girl tribute.

Back in the Capitol Caesar held his breath. A volunteer from District 12? That was unheard of!

Soon enough it was revealed that the volunteer was the sister of the twelve-year-old who had been originally reaped. All his attention was now fixed on the screens that captured the pictures of the square in District 12. But Caesar was not looking at the stage and the volunteer; he was looking at the crowd, at the young people of Reaping Age. How many of the girls were right now asking themselves if they would have been brave enough to volunteer in their younger sister's place? How many of the boys asked themselves if their older brothers might volunteer for them?

His gaze was arrested by the face of a boy in the sixteen-year-old section. In itself it was an unremarkable face, but Caesar knew the boy. Or at least, he knew who he was. His name was Ehron Franks, younger brother of the former tribute Joseph Franks. Caesar would most likely have forgotten most of the characteristics of that tribute if not for Effie Trinket. He of course remembered the names of all tributes, just in case a sibling was reaped and he had to be prepared for the tragic story that might have to be brought up in his closing remarks on the district or mentioned in the interview if Caesar felt it would help the tribute. But he rarely remembered more about a tribute unless he or she really stood out. And Joseph Franks had been spectacularly unremarkable. Yet Effie Trinket never tired of telling everyone that it had been him and his good manners that had finally convinced her to take a more active role in the quest for sponsors, same as Pancratius Serva did for District 6. She had yet to see the success of this, but she persevered and more years than not got at least a little bit of sponsor money for her tributes. And all this because of a well-mannered but otherwise forgettable boy.

There, on the screen, Ehron had the same comparatively well-fed look Joseph had had, which in a district such as District 12 was indeed outstanding, but his face was much more serious than his older brother's had been. Caesar knew with a single look that Ehron was all too aware that there was nobody to volunteer for him, should the odds see him being reaped, but that he was also equally well aware that by now he had lived a year longer than his brother ever had. He was in no danger though this year as another boy from his section was reaped, without a volunteer exchanging places with him.

As Caesar made the bridge to District 11, most likely still guided by the occurrences during the first Reaping and his observances on siblings, his thoughts moved towards a volunteer that had never been acknowledged as such. Strange enough it had been the same games as those of the forgettable Joseph Franks, where twins had secretly exchanged places. Of course, Caesar had no proof of this, and neither had the rest of the nation, but all signs pointed towards it. The highly pregnant sister during the victory tour and more importantly that year's victor's behaviour upon the sight of her were the strongest clues. To Caesar however there had already been the strangeness of the final fight, in which the twin had died in the arena and the cryptic answers he had gotten from victor Griffin Doyle in the following interviews. And he knew that to this day the winner of the 67th Hunger Games sent letters to District 11 to the sister's child named Ahadi, either by having the mentors on the victory tour pass them on or handing them over himself to the mentors from District 11 when they met for the games in the Capitol. It was a risky thing as interactions with other districts, even for victors of the Hunger Games, outside the season was not allowed, but as he otherwise played his role as victor and mentor perfectly and showed no signs of harbouring any rebellious tendencies, the President had let it slide. Besides, all the intercepted letters showed was outlines of everyday things filled with a myriad of varying patterns. It was an old art called Zentangle that the victor had picked up as hobby.

It had surprised many that during his victory tour Griffin had presented all the families of the fallen tributes with a picture in that style of something he remembered the other boys and girls by. Often it was simple, generic things, like a weapon he had seen that tribute try out during training or something from the outfit worn at the parade, as he had not gotten to know them better. But there had been tears in the eyes of the little girl from District 7 as he presented her with a picture of a patterned squirrel in remembrance of the carved token she had given to his ally Coralee Lume. And she had not been the only one moved by the gesture.

When Caesar had asked about the pictures in the interview following the tour, Griffin had simply said: "I am the only one left, who shared the parade, the training, the interviews and ultimately the arena with them. And I think it helps the families to find closure in knowing that I will not forget my fellow tributes. While it is hard to lose loved ones, it does not do to dwell on the past, lest it becomes suffocating."

Then, for the following games, when Griffin had returned as mentor, aside from bringing one of the Zentagleart pictures to be auctioned away to raise sponsor money for his tributes, he had presented Caesar with a patterned picture of the famous wig. Caesar had been certainly surprised, but also happy to accept the gift and to this day it held a place of honour in his office at home. Even the President had received a picture, a rose, much to the man's delight. And that, maybe more than anything else, had in the end protected all those in the know of the suspected swap, the child included. By some mysterious way, Griffin Doyle had known that treating the President as a man of the people while at the same time singling him out with a special favour, would be playing the powerful man perfectly.

Yet knowing how to play people was a double-edged sword, especially in times of growing unrest and Caesar could clearly see the signs. A rebellion was looming on the horizon and only time would show how it all ended.

 **A/N:** And there you have it: THE END

I hope you enjoyed the story and thanks to all readers for having made it that far with me.


End file.
